


Yes and Please and Thank You

by WyvernQuill



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: (The Author Would Like To Personally Apologise For All The Footnotes), 6000 Years of Pining (Good Omens), Angst with a Happy Ending, Aziraphale and Crowley Through The Ages (Good Omens), Curses, Footnotes, Humor, M/M, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-18
Updated: 2020-03-30
Packaged: 2020-08-11 14:08:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 24,870
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20154847
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WyvernQuill/pseuds/WyvernQuill
Summary: "Go to alpha centauri, for all I care! Go now, this very instant, and never return, do you hear me, Crowley? Never!"Due to Crowley's firm conviction that "he need never know", Aziraphale has, for all the time they've known each other, been blissfully unaware of the obedience curse Crowley's been looping holes around since 4004 BC.You can't really blame him, is the point. Aziraphale had no idea what his unthinking words might do, and is already planning to apologise profusely at dinner......which might get a little tricky, seeing as Crowley has just been sighted in the vicinity of Pluto, and has concrete orders to never show his face on earth.Ever.Again.





	1. In Which Crowley Makes Mistakes And Has Ideas

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter beta'd by beforecrimson - thank you again!

Some days, Crowley thought the entire story of his life - well, existence - boiled down to two moments of utter stupidity and fatal mistakes.

One was quite obvious: the day Lucifer and his entourage had been strolling along where he'd been fluffing a nebula into shape, and Crowley* had chosen to wave to them rather than mind his own business.

*He had not been Crowley then, of course, hadn't even been Crawly. But that old name was erased from reality, and Crawly hadn't ever been _him,_ not really, so we must make do.

After that, the agony of the Fall was merely a logical conclusion.

(Now, wait a minute, you might say. Agony? I was under the impression Crowley did nothing more than vaguely saunter downwards!

And you would, of course, be correct, Esteemed Reader. However, we invite you to imagine walking in too-high heels five sizes too small, with your kneecaps taken out, your hip joints dislocated, and your trousers on fire.

This was roughly the kind of saunter Crowley had undertaken, and that's not even _mentioning_ the worst part.

It's not the Fall that kills you, after all.

It's the sudden stop at the end.)

The second Mistake - capitalised for emphasis, and because Crowley liked to capitalise things* - occurred very shortly after.

*Crowley invented Noun Capitalisation,** in case you didn't know. Over the centuries, Aziraphale managed to nearly eradicate this demonic influence in the English tongue, but it doggedly persists in a number of other Indo-European languages despite his best efforts.

**A filing error in Hell resulted in him being credited for the invention of capitalism instead, which Crowley was a little disappointed by. _For once_ he'd done sterling work, and _then..._

Oh well. Crowley doubted they'd have properly appreciated Capitalisation, anyway.

This was still before the apple and the sword and the wall and the rain, within that short span of Crowley's life devoid of Aziraphale, before he knew what love meant.

(Crowley doesn't like to think back to _that time,_ nowadays.)

It had been a nice day - all of the days had been nice, really, which was just rubbing salt into the open third-degree burn if you were a newly-Fallen demon - and Beelzebub had come up to him and said "go up there, make some trouble".

Crowley, fool that he was, utterly idiotic imbecile with not a brain cell to be found within his skull...

Said no.

It might surprise you to hear that Beelzebub, by and large, was a comparatively lenient Prince. Taking zir leadership duties very seriously, ze had implemented a number of programmes designed to provide support to demons struggling with their tasks, ranging from holiday bonuses to anonymous counselling sessions.*

*Ze had even offered parental leave to those who had Nephilim on earth, but we all know how _that_ turned out...

However, that was _now._

Beelzebub shortly after the Creation of Man, shaken and still singed at the tips of zir wings, was a different beast.

Zir authority had never been questioned before. Ze was Prince, and the trauma of Falling too fresh in the demons' minds - usually a backstabbing lot - to rebel again.

And then there was Crowley, saying no.

(He couldn't even remember why, anymore. Not that it really mattered.)

Beelzebub snapped.*

*We would write 'panicked', but fear ze knows where we live, and might take rather drastic measures to make us reconsider our wording.

Before he could as much as blink Crowley found himself chained in the middle of a complicated incantation circle, with Beelzebub buzzing like an angry horse fly, going on about how he was to be made an example of, in case any of the other demons entertained similar thoughts about insubordination.

(The irony of punishing one of the Fallen for disobedience was entirely lost on zir. Demons suffered from two major deficiencies: a lack of imagination, and one of self-awareness.)

Crowley remembered very little of the early days BA.*

*Before Angel, obviously.

But he remembered that moment, kneeling in the soot and dirt of Hell, phantom pains still shooting through the empty space in his chest where God's Love had once been, and Beelzebub looming over him with a piece of Hellflint in zir hand.

_"You'll never tell me 'no' again."_ Ze had hissed, and those words still echoed in his nightmares.

And then, ze had plunged the rock into Crowley's non-Grace, scratching a binding curse into his very being until he screamed.

When he'd come back to his senses, and ze repeated zir orders, Crowley had had no choice but to obey.

(He'd never have a choice ever again.

One 'no' had been all it took. One Mistake.)

"And be quick about it!" Hastur had called after him, and Crowley found himself hurrying.

"Oi, watch where you're going!" Another demon snapped as he barrelled past them, and Crowley suddenly couldn't look anywhere but the path ahead, the curse's sigils burning into his skin if he so much as blinked.

Luckily, he didn't necessarily need to. Perks of being a snake.

* * *

(You are likely appalled, dear reader. So were we.

But, already on this very first assignment, Crowley realised that an obedience curse could be made perfectly bearable if one was possessed of a vivid imagination and a talent for finding loopholes.

"Make trouble", ze had said.

How? Where? When? Well, turns out _that_ was still up to Crowley, to a certain degree.)

* * *

The Forbidden Tree had been nothing special, really. Just a tree that was not to be touched. The Almighty had silly ideas sometimes, and luring the humans into a little bite would have been trouble, certainly, but no Trouble.

So Crowley had gone to Eve, sweet, foolish, gullible Eve, and talked to her about the Tree.

It never even occurred to her to say no. Never occurred to her that she _could._

Given the situation, that had hit a little very close to home; so Crowley made a knee-jerk* decision, and it'd been, perhaps, the first right one in a long time.

*Well, he hadn't had legs at that point, but, y'know, figure of speech.

Taking a piece of his own Free Will - not like he was really going to need it, not anymore - and spinning it into an apple, he made the Tree the Tree of Knowledge, and told Eve to take a bite.

Nobody need ever know of it. God likely wasn't even paying attention to them anymore.

"It'll be our little ssssecret," he'd hissed, gently nudging Eve forward, and watched as humanity acquired Choice.

That had been Trouble, alright.

* * *

(Sometimes, Crowley thought he'd made a third Mistake in talking to the angel on the Eastern Wall of Eden.

Then he thought of Aziraphale's smiles, and discarded the notion immediately.)

* * *

All in all, it hadn't been the end of the world.*

*Still 6000 years to go for that.

The curse didn't extend to humans, for one. They could give him orders until they were blue in the face, Crowley was under no obligation to obey to any of it.

And as for the demons... well.

As previously stated, demons have, by and large, no imagination.

Crowley never received precise orders, simply because Hell couldn't really think of complex dastardly machinations they wanted him to carry out.

It was always "trouble this" and "murder that", and he quickly found that pushing a vase off the table or stepping on an ant was perfectly sufficient for the terms of the curse.

Report some purely human atrocity afterwards, and head office would send back a commendation, making future orders even easier.

"Do more of what you did during the Spanish Inquisition," eh? So, "nothing and lie about it", gotcha.

If there was any way, any way at all, to remove the curse, Crowley would've been free of it long ago,* seeing as how he'd done such exemplary work on earth.

*He would have been released, but not _forgiven,_ as such. He was a demon. There was no forgiveness for demons.

Aziraphale, now...

Well.

He'd worried about Aziraphale, at the start.

This was the Enemy, after all, and back then Hell had not quite figured out how to distinguish between Heaven and the Fallen in their cursing. If Aziraphale _knew_ he, too, theoretically had Crowley at his beck and call...

Demons had no imagination, and the tentative stirrings of something like "honour among thieves", but angels, well, angels...

(This had been back when God had still tended towards the vengeful, of course, and one would've been very unwise to put one's life in angel hands if one did not have absolute faith in one's pure and unblemished soul.)

Even if Aziraphale would not hurt him, he might well report Crowley's delicate situation to head office, and he was sure other angels had no qualms about telling him to go drink a Holy Water cocktail.

It wasn't worth the risk.

(Crowley had subsequently done his best to avoid Aziraphale as much as he could for the first 4000 years, even though something new and fragile deep within him protested against it.)

Only...

The more regularly they ran across each other, the more Crowley realised there was another viable option.

Aziraphale need never know.

Because, and this was the best part: Aziraphale never demanded a thing of him.

Wheedled, yes. Requested, suggested. But it was all "might we" and "wouldn't you", and the curse slept peacefully through it in Crowley's chest.*

*Much of it was about Intent, you see, and Aziraphale seemed to have no intent to bend Crowley to his will whatsoever.

(That Crowley wished, on occasion, to be bent _over_ certain items of furniture by him, well, that was entirely inconsequential in this context, and we don't even know why we brought it up.)

For instance, Aziraphale _invited_ him for oysters, after Lower Management had bullied him into a trip to Rome. He hadn't been invited to dine in years.*

*The last supper Crowley had been asked to attend had been, well, the Last Supper, and that had found him understandably glum.

When Aziraphale came to meet the black knight, did he order him to fight? To lay down his weapon?

No. They just talked.

(Didn't agree, but, well. Can't have 'em all.)

Disagreements regarding the Arrangement - Crowley's favourite capitalisation - were settled over coin flips,* and at that point Crowley was already so far beyond gone on Aziraphale that he miracled Hamlet into a success with barely any prompting.

*Crowley didn't even cheat, most of the time.

(He'd made it his mission in life to never obey the spirit of any order given to him, contrary on principle; except when Aziraphale was concerned.

In those cases, Crowley was happy to oblige.)

He rescued Aziraphale in France - "cause some deaths", "make some trouble", well, sending an executioner to the guillotine and breaking into a prison ticked _those_ off the list - and was subsequently invited for crepes; and never was he as much as ordered to pass the jam.

It was around that time when Crowley began letting down his guard entirely.

Perhaps that budding trust was the reason it had hurt so much when Aziraphale refused the _one_ time Crowley asked for something back.

_Fraternising_ indeed.

Crowley had gone back to his apartment, and felt so tired of it all.

Humans died, even the best of them;* fellow demons only delighted in ordering him around.

*Though that never stopped Crowley befriending them, brilliant little mayflies that they were.

And the one angel he felt safe around, the _one_ entity he loved, didn't want to _fraternise._

Crowley did what one did when one had a bit of a crisis; slept for nearly a century - he'd accumulated quite a few days of paid leave by then - and, once he'd woken up, went and bought a fast car.

(The Bentley, at least, wasn't ashamed to be seen in his presence.)

* * *

WWII had worked out, somehow.

"Make trouble", Beelzebub had said, but, as usual, not specified _for which side._

So Crowley had joined British counterintelligence.

There was no shortage of Nazi atrocities he could sell to head office when they came knocking, as long as he neglected to mention the dozens of other catastrophes he had worked to prevent.

Like the time he rushed into a church to protect Aziraphale, and saved his books for him - as one did, when one was desperately in love.

Bit hard to sell to Lower Management, that.

(He would never forget the way Aziraphale had looked at him that night. Never. There had been something wondrous in it, for those precious few hours, and though the angel was back to his guarded self in the morning, Crowley's delusions had been fuelled sufficiently.)

* * *

And then, 1967.

Aziraphale handed him the Holy Water, still no order passing his lips, but an unspoken plea Crowley could barely decipher.

  
And then he slipped into the night, gone in a blink, and if Crowley hadn't had the thermos*, well, he might've wondered if he hadn't dreamt it all up.

*Tartan-patterned. Of course.

Crowley was half convinced Aziraphale had chosen that deliberately. He couldn't very well refill the damn thing, could he.

_Too fast._ Crowley thought glumly, staring out at the flickering neon lights of Soho. _Tell me to go slow then, angel, and mean it. I'll always do as you ask._

_Whether I want to or not._

* * *

The 21st century came, and with it a summons to an old graveyard, the first non-negotiable order Crowley had received in years.

Always him, Crowley thought on the ride to the hospital, the dreadful monster crying helplessly in the back seat. He hadn't meant to Fall, hadn't meant to get humans cast out of Eden, hadn't meant to love Aziraphale and he _certainly_ wasn't meaning this.

End of the world.

In Crowley's eyes, his world had barely started. He needed at least another century with Aziraphale, more, an eternity would be ideal.*

*An eternity was actually a precisely measured divine unit, determined by the average beak-sharpening rate of the African swallow - not the European one, _Heaven Forbid_ \- in regards to a certain mountain at the edge of the universe, factoring in travel time by spaceship.

It was a rather impractical unit, by and large, and not really in use anymore.

It was quite extraordinarily long though, and that was why Crowley found it perfect for the sentiment he wished to express.

He couldn't let it happen.

He'd think of something, Crowley was good at thinking of things, he was always angling for the next loophole, wasn't he?

This order was just a magnitude or two bigger than "make some trouble in Edinburgh", that was all.

Choice and Free Will, it all came down to Choice and Free Will, and Mistakes.

Crowley leaned over the back of the Bentley's front seat,* gazing thoughtfully at the child in the basket.

*The Bentley continued driving perfectly unfazed. Crowley's input was honestly more of a hindrance than a boon most days, as far as it was concerned.

It looked so very, very normal. Had Crowley not know better, he would've thought it a regular human. No horns, no sulphur, not even the vague impression of a single hoofiewoofie.

_Choice_, Crowley thought, and like the day he'd stood before the apple tree, an idea came to him.

Two Mistakes, and two Ideas. It all balanced itself out in the end.*

*Crowley secretly thought the Buddhists had the right of it, at the end of the day, but Hell's PR department preferred he align himself with something a little more Judeo-Christian.

One snap of his fingers, and somewhere not too far away, a woman by the name of Deirdre Young gasped and screamed _"ARTHUR!"_ at ear-splitting volume.

Wrong child, wrong family. The hellhound would go to the wrong boy, no Apocalypse, Antichrist lost, whoops-a-daisy.

Nobody need ever know, not even Aziraphale.

"It'll be our little secret," Crowley told the baby, reaching over the back of the seat to awkwardly pat its head, bare of any horn-like growths and covered in a few fluffy tufts of golden hair.

The Antichrist, Lord of Darkness and Bringer of End Times, gurgled contentedly and chewed on Crowley's thumb.

Crowley took it as a good omen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Me: signs up for the Good Omens Big Bang.  
Also me: immediately starts writing on an entirely different idea.
> 
> Oh well. This wouldn't leave my head, so obviously I had to drag it out kicking and screaming and wrestle it to paper.
> 
> Hope you enjoyed the first chapter, more to come soon!


	2. In Which Hearts Are Treated Quite Negligently Indeed

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Saga Continueth! My, this is getting longer than I thought it would...  
Please enjoy!

All in all, Crowley thought he'd done rather well, given the circumstances. The real Antichrist was off somewhere with whichever family had gotten him, ignorant of the powers he might've had, and as far as Crowley was concerned, that would be the end of it.

If nobody taught him, he'd remain just a normal boy...*

*...wouldn't he?

Involving themselves into the upbringing of Warlock was a knee-jerk decision - now with actual knees - mostly fueled by the desire to see Aziraphale more frequently. A nanny and a gardener might have a chat in the rose bushes, and if you heard her sigh longingly afterwards, well.

Humans fell in love, didn't they, and so did nannies.

(Their love wasn't always requited, but such was life.)

Plus, it had the added benefit that Hell left him to his mission, and a gardener could never order a nanny around, so he was safe on those fronts.

* * *

The boy's 12th birthday came and went... and no Hellhound came with it.

Crowley had hoped that would be the end of it. That the Hound had wandered off, for want of a master, never to return.

But it hadn't felt like it. The discharge of Evil Intent should've been palpable, but was instead noticeably absent.

And Crowley knew, just knew, long before the Hound found its true master, that he'd made a third Mistake.

_Why hadn't he written down the other family's address!? Out of sight, out of mind, eh, Crowley?_

_You damned, damned fool._

They had to find him again now, before it was too late, before the armies of Heaven and Hell noticed his deception, before...

He glanced over at Aziraphale, who was fussily trying to remove all the cake from about his person, licking it from his fingers when he thought Crowley wasn't looking;* and suddenly he was struck by the terrible reality of it all.

*Oh, Crowley was looking alright. He'd like to never do anything else.

Before Armageddon and the Last War rolled around.

Before he and Aziraphale would find themselves on opposing fronts.

Before... the inevitable.

(The demons could make him fight, after all. They could.

Aziraphale, gentle, loving - though not in the way Crowley truly wanted - Aziraphale, oh, he wouldn't want to. He'd throw that flaming sword of his to the ground and offer his hand to Crowley in friendship once more.

And if some Duke told him "kill every angel on sight" beforehand, well... then Crowley hoped he would be able to do it quickly and painlessly.)

* * *

Alpha centauri.

Crowley had done it, put all his cards on the table. _Please, angel, you and me, angel, just us among the stars, with no orders and no summons, no Great War, I know you don't want it, neither do I, please, choose me, I know you will, we are friends, aren't we? Come on, angel, please..._

And then Aziraphale said no.

And not just to running. To them.

Crowley was a demon. Crowley had no heart, aside from a useless lump of muscle in his chest. Crowley ran on spite alone.

And yet, something cracked and fell apart into a million little shards at that, and Crowley knew pain, every disobeyed order was agony, but... nothing like this.*

_*God and Satan both, not even remotely like this._

He stumbled away from the bandstand, feeling so desperately empty.

Aziraphale... he'd thought... now, at the end, after everything...

Crowley's gambles never seemed to pay off. Hand a girl knowledge, get her kicked out of the Garden. Ask an angel to run away, get your heart -_ Crowley had no heart, stop saying that!*_ \- broken.

*Crowley did, indeed, have no heart... anymore.

He'd miracled the organ itself away in an attempt to reduce the pain, and his metaphorical one, however much he might deny it, was well and truly shattered.

He knew he couldn't leave alone, and Aziraphale, the bastard, surely knew, too. Crowley hadn't exactly tried to hide how blessedly compromised he was in this regard, Aziraphale was just having a right old lark denying it.

A funny pair they made. Crowley who obeyed and never lied, Aziraphale who spoke no orders and kept deceiving himself.

Balance. And the Buddhist fellows _did_ have a point.

* * *

When Crowley begged him to come away again, a part of him wished Aziraphale would tell him yes this time, or at least order him to stay, too; they could die together, rather than Crowley being ripped to shreds alone by an incensed Hastur.

_(Damn him, damn the Antichrist, damn Heaven and Hell and all the blessed world!)_

I forgive you. FORGIVE YOU. Crowley didn't want bloody forgiveness, what was the point in absolving the sins of the past? Nothing, that's what it was. A great, pustulent bollock of nothing.

Crowley wanted, had only ever wanted, one measly little angel, was that too much to ask? One angel, one tiny planet to make home...

...or one grave. At the end of the day - or rather, the world - if Hastur got him, if the Apocalypse went ahead... it would all be the same to him then, wouldn't it.

* * *

Crowley knelt among the flames, and his only thought was "why can't the world end already".

He would welcome the Antichrist with open arms right about now. Just curl up in the ashes of the bookshop, and wait for the planet to crumble, why, thank you, Mr. Satan Jr., much obliged.

Crowley took the nearest book - _they were all gone, all burning, Austen and Dickinson and Wilde and Shakespeare, what would Aziraphale say? ...nothing, of course, he'd say nothing, nothing ever again_ \- pressed it to his chest, and wept.

The tears evaporated quicker than he could shed them.

He'd returned his heart to his ribcage some time after the bandstand, once it ceased aching quite so ardently, and now he didn't even have the energy to banish it again. It just sat there, a cold, dead lump.

Crowley could relate.

* * *

Crowley's heart restarted precisely 48 minutes, 13 seconds and nearly a gallon of cheap booze later, the exact moment he managed to croak "...Aziraphale?" despite the way it was suddenly hammering in his chest.*

*The poor thing had had an unpleasantly eventful few days, though that was nothing against the state of Crowley's liver.

_Not gone. Not gone, not gone._ It was the only thought in Crowley's quite spectacularly sloshed brain, his mouth running off without him, telling Aziraphale why he hadn't gone to alpha centauri - at least his self preservation instincts had managed to only let "best friend" slip - and it was only the fact that Aziraphale spoke a command - a mild one, but an order still* - when he called "go to Tadfield" through the ether that made him move.

*It was surely not the first time. Little, inconsequential commands slipped through the nets, their effect so light Crowley barely even noticed before he obeyed, but it was certainly the first time that _counted._

The curse burned gently through the haze of alcohol, through Crowley's confusion - wiggle on, really? - and pulled him out into the Bentley, towards Tadfield.

Agnes Nutter's blessed book sitting in his lap, Crowley drove off towards Doom, the End of the World, and Aziraphale - the last of which rendered the rest utterly inconsequential.

* * *

Apocalypses* were somehow both more stressful and more anticlimactic that Crowley would've expected.

*We wonder if it should not be Apocalypsi, or perhaps Apocalypsae, but somehow, this question is one that has never occurred to scholars.

Perhaps, this has something to do with the fact that there only ever should've been one of them, barring meddlers like Aziraphale and Crowley and the assorted humans on that airbase.

Standing together on cracked tarmac, Aziraphale smiling at him with visible relief, the backs of their hands gently brushing, Crowley took a deep breath, and sent a wry smile upwards. Ineffable Plan or not, he hoped She was watching.

Some part of him that even Falling had never quite managed to extinguish hoped She liked what She was seeing.*

*We, as omniscient narrators, are happy to inform you that God was, indeed, pleased. So much so, in fact, that She spilled celestial popcorn all over Her cloud sofa in Her exuberance, and received a "Mom, you're _SO_ embarrassing!" from Jesus shortly afterwards.

* * *

One night.

Crowley had hoped for an eternity, once, over a decade ago, but one night was all they'd ever get, it seemed like. Heaven and Hell might be in disarray, but they were nothing but efficient when it came to administering God and/or Satan's wrath in strategic places.*

*The Fall, for instance, had occurred within less than five minutes of Lucifer saying "actually, guys, what are your thoughts on... rebellion?", and that had been comparatively tardy.

One night of reprieve.

One night of Aziraphale on a seat beside him, sharing a bottle, one night of him in his Mayfair flat, standing there awkwardly, clashing with literally everything Crowley owned and yet somehow completing it.

(One night of the flat being not "the flat" but _home.)_

One night.

"Angel?" Crowley said tentatively, when Aziraphale was curled up on a hastily-miracled couch, hands wrapped around some hot cocoa. "Alright there?"

"Hm? Oh. Oh yes, dear boy. Splendid. Wonderful." Aziraphale's fingers were whiter than the porcelain of the mug. "Spiffy."

"Do you need anything?" Crowley asked. He'd give Aziraphale whatever he asked for in a heartbeat, bound by so much more than a curse.

Aziraphale looked, briefly, like he meant to demur again.

And then, something slipped and cracked in his expression, and he whispered, as if in terrible pain, _"books"._

Crowley nearly tripped with how fast he scrambled over to his desk, pulling out all the drawers and gathering together his - rather modest - collection of various novels and other readable material.*

*Crowley would tell anyone who asked, and Aziraphale most of all, that he _didn't do books._

This was, in fact, a lie. Crowley _did_ do books; he was, however, well aware that his doing of books was nowhere near the level of Aziraphale's, and if he ever so much as hinted at finding _Paradice Lost_ quite humorous, the angel would want to _discuss,_ and _theorise,_ and generally do things that went miles over Crowley's head.

Therefore, life was easier for everyone involved if Crowley simply denied books altogether.

He carried the stack over to the couch, gently depositing them in Aziraphale's lap, who immediately singled out his Big Book of Astronomy* to cradle in his arms like a child.

*Crowley would adamantly insist he only had it to make the fundamentalists that rang at his door on occasion cry - two of them had tried to tell him that it was only God holding up the planets, and, with all due respect to Her, Crowley had felt the need to introduce them to a silly little thing called "gravity" - but we all know the truth about that, don't we?

"T-thank you, my dear." Aziraphale smiled weakly. "All better now."

Crowley wasn't quite convinced, and it must've showed on his face.

"Oh, will you cease looking at me like that?" Aziraphale huffed. "I am perfectly fine. It's merely been... _oh..."_

He dabbed ineffectively at the corner of his eyes. "Been a tense couple of days. I shall be fine momentarily."

"It's okay if you're not." Crowley awkwardly tried to find something to do with his hands, but the cut of his trousers did not allow for putting them, or anything else, into the pockets. "I'm not fine either."

"Precisely." Aziraphale sniffed, hugging the book tighter. "One of us will have to be."

The Esteemed Readers likely already know the first impression people get of Aziraphale; so now, we'd like to relate to you the same for Crowley.

Upon first meeting Anthony J. Crowley, people instantly assumed three things about him: one, he was mafia; two, he was cool, collected and assertive, the kind of man who knew what he wanted and took it; and three, judging from the way he moved his hips, he was recovering from being on the receiving end of the single best shag in existence.

Two of these assumptions were incorrect. Whatever Hell might like to think, they were less like organised crime and more like incompetent bureaucrats - even though some people might argue there was no difference; and Crowley was... well, he hadn't... that is to say... since the person he wanted to be shagged by was not amenable, he'd never...

...he wasn't getting shagged, was the point.*

*The more innocent among those who met him sometimes thought he had recently had double hip replacement surgery, or alternatively was in need of one; this was, of course, no less false.

Crowley's hips were perfectly intact, they were just terribly difficult to operate for a being more used to slithering.

The third assumption, well now...

The third assumption was not only equally incorrect, but the single greatest misconception since Columbus had stepped onto the beach, looked around, and exclaimed "India! We've made it!".

Crowley was not cool. Crowley was also not collected, and if assertive had ever as much as passed him in the street, it had avoided eye contact and pretended to see a distant friend at the corner, must dash, ever so sorry!

Crowley was, in essence, a coward. If he knew what he wanted, he also knew he would never dare to make even the tiniest move towards it, much less _take_ it.

And what Crowley wanted most in the world currently sat on his sofa, teary-eyed and shaking, in a little nest of books and begging for a hug with everything except his words.*

*Oh, how Crowley wished sometimes Aziraphale was less polite. How he wished for a clear, precise "hold me" from his lips, "stay", "kiss me", "love me".

It wouldn't be an order then. It would be _permission._

A demon could dream, couldn't he.

Aziraphale glanced up at him, and he looked so lost, so helpless, so desperate, that Crowley nearly went and gathered him close until that look went away.

"Ngk," Crowley said, as sympathetically as he could, and then went to bed.

(Aziraphale, the Esteemed Readers might like to know, very nearly called after him; but he was a coward, too, so they spent that one last night in separate rooms and pining deeply and miserably as always.*

*Until Aziraphale pulled Crowley out of bed around three in the morning, nattering on about a prophecy and faces, that is; but, at that point, the moment had passed, and the damage was done.

At least, there was a chance of eternity to make up for it...)

* * *

Aziraphale felt strange in Crowley's body, so narrow and jittery and altogether on edge; though that might well be his own nerves.

In a way, it was Crowley's heart he could feel beating in his chest,* his soft breathing, and... well, it was an intimacy Aziraphale would never dream of demanding.

*Irregularly, but Aziraphale wasn't too worried in that regard. The hearts of demons and angels were generally not very good at beating, and sometimes had to pause a while before starting up again, when they thought their owner might not be paying attention.

Hell was. Well. Hell, Aziraphale supposed. Dank and grimy. Crowley had described it to him once,* and while his words had not quite done the real thing justice, he'd known what to expect.

*In that same conversation, conducted while very drunk, Crowley had also spoken of Falling, and evil deeds, and... Aziraphale had had the feeling Crowley had meant to confess something else, but stopped himself just in time. He'd pretended not to remember a thing of it the next morning, which, all in all, had seemed a mutually agreeable course of action.

It might've had something to do with orders and obedience, and Mistakes. Aziraphale wasn't sure.

"Into the water." Prince Beelzebub ordered, and Aziraphale hesitated. For some reason, the Prince had seemed unsettled by his request to unclothe first, and was even now leaning forward in zir seat, white-knuckled and buzzing only ever so slightly.*

*The Esteemed Reader will remember the first and last time Crowley had not instantly obeyed an order, and understand zir disquiet. Aziraphale, of course, had no clue.

"Get. IN! NOW!!!" Beelzebub snapped, and Aziraphale - no, no, _Crowley_ \- raised one brow.

"No rush." He drawled, in that incomparable suave manner Crowley exhibited, cocking his hip ever so slightly. "You only die once*, don't you?"

*The real Crowley might've said "live twice", and felt very Bond about it all.

Ze was visibly panicking now. "Do NOT dizzzzobey me!" Ze fumed. "You can't, you know you can't! Guardzzz, THROW HIM IN!"

Aziraphale held up his hands pacifyingly. "Going, I'm going. But only because I _want_ to, mind, not because you've ordered me to."

And it was this, not the subsequent reveal of Holy Water immunity, that actually, truly, put the fear of Crowley into the assembled demons.

* * *

"Shup your stupid mouth. And die already." Gabriel said, pulling his face into a terrible grin.

Crowley said nothing. He no longer could, of course.

And then he stepped into the flames.

The Esteemed Reader might worry that the direct order of "die" has sealed Crowley's fate, subterfuge and chosen face be damned.

The Esteemed Reader can rest easily. You can order someone a lot of things, but not to die, never to die.

This is, of course, because dying isn't actually something one is in charge of.

That is Death's domain... and Death cares little for the orders of inconsequential mayfly beings.*

*That includes archangels. Death had been around long before Gabriel, and he would continue on long after he was gone.

Crowley could be ordered to step into Hellfire - or Holy Water - and if that killed him, well, that was another thing entirely.

Gabriel could not order Crowley to die. And, if things proceeded as planned for Aziraphale, well, then it would never again occur to Prince Beelzebub to do so.

As Crowley stepped into the flames and smiled, it occurred to him that he would be free.

Not entirely.

Not truly.

But close enough.

* * *

"To the world." Crowley said, gazing at Aziraphale with abject wonder.

Some parts of him still couldn't quite believe he was still there, they were still there, the earth was - well, you get the point.

It felt surreal, and like it was surely, surely, far more than Crowley deserved.*

*Crowley would not call himself one for being maudlin - even though he was - but he had a very clear understanding of what he deserved, and while that mythical collection contained being left alone by Hell and the world intact and not ended, Aziraphale had never been a part of it.

Aziraphale was a _gift._ Crowley might even say blessing, if the mere word didn't tickle unpleasantly at the back of his throat.

"To the world." Aziraphale echoed, soft and intense.

Their glasses clinked, a nightingale had the sudden urge to explode into song, and the world went on as it always had, nothing whatsoever to see here.

_Freedom,_ Crowley thought to himself, rolling the word around his mouth the same way he would a good sip of champagne - incidentally what occupied his mouth at the time - as Aziraphale related a charming little anecdote about Shelley that Crowley had heard five times and still wasn't sick of, if just for the little twinkle it brought into Aziraphale's eye.

_Freedom. Quite nice, like the ring of that._

He could get used to it.

Now that there was time.

* * *

(The Esteemed Reader might assume that this is where our story ends. And we agree, it does seem a rather lovely state to leave them in, doesn't it? Champagne and dinner date and all.

However, nothing good can come of dormant curses left unchecked, or of love left unvoiced, or even Antichrists left on earth; thus, even if the account of the Esteemed Sirs Pratchett and Gaiman chooses to end here, we must needs soldier on, and recount the remainder of this sordid tale.

We hope you bear with us despite it all.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The canon retelling is done, let the true plot commence...  
Do leave a comment if you enjoyed, I do so love every single one I receive!  
^-^ <3


	3. In Which A Decision Is Made

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh boy. Apologies for the delay, I was off writing an arranged marriage Regency AU, because I have zero (0) self-restraint.
> 
> But, finally! Plot!

_"Angel..."_ Crowley breathed, startled. "You... you...."

Aziraphale's face reddened, and he averted his eyes. "Yes. Well."

"You were _CHEATING!"_ Crowley exploded, and flipped the Scrabble board.

"Well. That wasn't necessary, was it." Aziraphale frowned down at the table, and discreetly shook a few vowels out of his sleeve. "I let you put anacondaic, and-"

"It's a descriptive term for something anaconda-like!"

"-and cupboard-y."

"...s'something that resembles a cupboard."

"Do I need to get the dictionary*, Crowley?" Aziraphale raised a threatening eyebrow. "Do I?"

*Always one for being well-prepared - and a bit of a bastard - Aziraphale had naturally miracled the dictionary to always contain exactly the words he wanted it to.

We would like to inform the Esteemed Reader that even a normal dictionary does NOT contain _anacondaic_ or _cupboardy,_ just in case they intend to use it during the next board game night.

"Do I need to filch you, angel?" Crowley countered, eyeing the Q behind Aziraphale's left ear. _"Again?"_

They glared at each other. Neither backed down.

"Well, this was lovely!" Aziraphale beamed suddenly. "Another game?"

"Sure thing, angel." Crowley grinned, and sipped his wine.

Board game nights had been Aziraphale's idea, and, well, who was Crowley to deny him anything?*

*Secretly, it reminded him of playing games with Warlock - and losing spectacularly, because one did not want the Antichrist in a temper tantrum - so he wouldn't miss it for the world, no matter how many "bored game" jokes he cracked.

They had yet to play a game to its natural conclusion. From observing the practice in various books and other media, Aziraphale and Crowley had deduced that fighting was an essential part of gaming nights, and diligently recreated this.

"Uno or Monopoly, dear boy?" Aziraphale asked.

"How about-"

"We are NOT playing Snakes and Ladders again, Crowley!" Aziraphale interjected sharply. "I really _must_ put my foot down!"

Crowley huffed. "S'not what I was gonna say."

"Oh? Then do go on."

Crowley opened his mouth.

Closed it again.

Pouted most pointedly.

"That's what I thought." Aziraphale pulled the Game of Life from its shelf. "This one, I think."

"Noooo, angel!" Crowley whined. "S'depressing!"

"It's the miracle of human existence." Aziraphale argued primly. "They get born, they work, they die, all according to the Ineffable Plan. It's an _allegory,_ you'll like it."

(Aziraphale was quietly delighted that they were already getting a headstart with the arguing; they'd become expert players yet!)

Crowley rolled his eyes. "There's no plans for the humans, Aziraphale, not _really._ They've got Free Will, haven't they? With the Apple, an' all. Ineffable Plan, that's _our_ lots." He drained his wine glass, and poured himself another. "They've Choices, and they're Free. And that bloody game's too linear for that."*

*The last time they had played, Crowley had insisted to let his character run away to India and follow their dreams of becoming a snake charmer.

Aziraphale, diligently carrying out the high-paying 9-to-5 job of his choice - well, _"choice"_ \- had not been amused.

"Hum. I did always wonder about that. How the humans obtained Free Will. The briefing never said anything about Apples of Knowledge." Aziraphale mused, briefly distracted. "Funny thing, that. I might've guarded it more closely then."

Crowley studiously neglected to answer, or even acknowledge the question.

"I suppose it scarcely matters. Do pour me another, will you, while I set up?"

Crowley did so, and pretended not to notice Aziraphale slipping a selected career path card into his sleeve.

This was good. This was nice. Domestic enjoyment with Aziraphale. Not too fast, was it? Another few centuries of this, Crowley could take, easily, and wouldn't even get actually impatient.

(And if Aziraphale rolled up his sleeves and undid his bowtie a few times, he might even make it another six millennia.)

The telephone rang.

"I'll get it, I'll get it." Crowley unfolded himself from the sofa, quietly suspecting this was a distraction technique so Aziraphale could shuffle the cards strategically. Or nab the yellow car.

"A. Z. Fell's Books for Burning, you're speaking to the Chief Incinerator, what kindling can we sell you tonight?" Crowley drawled.*

*Crowley liked to answer the bookshop phone with increasingly ludicrous introductions, and pretended not to notice Aziraphale glaring daggers** at his back.

**Pleased daggers, to be honest. Potential customers who got Crowley on the phone _never_ called back.

"I... what? This is, uh, Newt? Shadwell gave me the number for the Southern Pan- the bookshop." Newt hesitated. "Have I got it right?"

"Yeah. What's up?" Crowley frowned a little. What did the Pulsifer boy want, at this hour?

"Look. Um. Anathema said not to interfere, but. I don't think." He swallowed. "Just... watch the news, yes? There's... worrying stuff. Might be... I can't really remember, it's all faded, but... there was something, with Adam, something I meant to..."

Newt trailed off.

"Why did I call again?"*

*Adam could erase the happenings of those fateful apocalyptic days from the minds of humanity all he liked, but when it came right down to it, nothing beat a Pulsifer's quiet anxiety.

"Never mind. Ciao." Crowley quickly set the receiver down, and thought.

Adam.

Something wrong.

Something that _made the news._

He should tell Aziraphale. Yes, tell Aziraphale, take care of it together, they'd have it resolved in no time. Hopefully.

Crowley glanced over his shoulder. Aziraphle was humming softly to himself as he sorted little plastic bits, oblivious to the conversation that had just transpired, the very picture of blissful ignorance.

Or.

_Or,_ he could take care of it himself without worrying the angel.

(Adam was Crowley's own satanblessed mess, all things considered, and Aziraphale deserved a bit of quiet without emergency situations.)

_He need never know_, Crowley thought, sauntering back to the sofa with forced nonchalance.

"Telemarketers." He announced grandly. "Wanted to sell you an insurance package. Explained you don't need one*."

*This was due less to the fact that Aziraphale, as an angel, needed no insurance at all - everybody needs insurance, we believe - but because Crowley, as his own personal coping mechanism after the bookshop fire, had insured Aziraphale and all his belongings meticulously.

It wouldn't really keep them safe, of course, but Crowley felt like he'd done something, and sometimes that was all that counted.

"Oh, hope they're not disappointed, poor dears." Aziraphale said, as if he hadn't personally caused the nervous breakdown of no less than 47 door-to-door salesmen.*

*If the Esteemed Reader would like to know how, we must sadly inform them that even we have absolutely no idea, and neither does Crowley.

(It'd been bugging him quite terribly, to be frank, and he'd spent quite a while traipsing along the Road to Hell, trying to get one of the frozen salesmen to describe their experience, before giving up and sulking for a decade or two.)

"Yup." Crowley fiddled with the purple car, thoughts concerned with anything BUT disappointed telemarketers. "Look, angel... actually, s'getting late. I should, maybe..."

He gestured vaguely towards the door, already slipping on his jacket.

"...what?" Aziraphale startled, evidently taken aback. "But... but Crowley, we were just going to- we can play Pictionary, if you really..."

"Nah. S'fine. I'm tired, too." Crowley yawned exaggeratedly. "Been a long day."

"You slept in until midday!" Aziraphale accused.

_Fair._ Crowley winced.

"...and how long has it been since then, eh?" He smiled broadly, inching his way towards the exit.

Aziraphale seemed unconvinced.

He bit his lip.*

*FOCUS, Crowley. Do NOT think about lips and sleep-related activities.

Looked down.

"You... you don't _have_ to go." Aziraphale said, softly.

Crowley paused in the doorway.

Looked back.

This was one of those tender, vibrating moments, where something is only just about to crack, hanging in the balance, and we mix all our metaphors to even come close to accurately describing it.

Crowley swallowed. "D'you... d'you _want_ me to stay, angel?"

If Aziraphale said so, he would. No orders needed. Just the admittal he was wanted, needed, was that so much to ask? One word from him, and Crowley would crack open his chest - metaphorically, ouch - and let him know about it all. About Adam, the curse, maybe even his fond, foolish love, _just one word, just..._

"Oh. Ah. No, I do apologise, that was impolite. You are right, of course." Aziraphale wouldn't look up from his restless hands. "You should go."

"...alright then." Crowley fought to contain the surge of bitter disappointment in his chest. _We'll just have more of the usual then, I suppose._ "Ciao."

And with that, he slipped out into the night.

Aziraphale didn't move for the longest time.

"He might've at least finished his wine." He finally harrumphed, and then busied himself with cleaning up the games and deluding himself into feeling less terribly lost and forlorn than he was.

* * *

Saying Crowley felt guilty would be an understatement.

Crowley felt like he had ripped out Aziraphale's heart and stomped it into little pieces - metaphorically again, Crowley wasn't actually all that good with the ripping out of squishy bits, that had always been Ligur's shtick, Satan rest him - but there was nothing for it.

Crowley was back at the flat in a blink - quite literally, rush hour was something that only happened to other people* - and turned on the telly.

*Unless he wanted to drag out the time Aziraphale spent in the Bentley with him.

(Crowley, when driving alone, barely had time to insert a Mozart cassette into the blaupunkt.

In Aziraphale's company, however, the cassette was not only inserted, but played the entire Best Of Queen album...

_Twice.)_

"This is the news at 10*, back with an updated report on the situation in Brussels. Bob?"

*Actually, it was the news at about twenty-two minutes and a bit past 9, but if Crowley turned on the telly to watch the news, then, by Satan, there would be news on!

"Well, it seems like the delegates are no longer chained to the table, at least, and the ghostly apparitions of oversized ozone molecules and undersized polar ice caps have ceased haunting them, even though, as of yet, climate change has not been fixed, as per their demands. The whales are still there, however, and singing their mournful songs. I may or may not be crying. >sniff< B-back to the studio."

"Thank you, Bob. Someone give the man a tissue. And now the weather. Cloudy skies all over the British Isles, except for this little bit right here marked Tadfield, where people may enjoy a clear, starry nightsky."

"....oh, _wonderful."_ Crowley groaned. "That's just _fantastic,_ innit?"

(The telly politely turned itself off, so I wouldn't interfere with Crowley's dramatic soliloquy.)

"_Human, as far as I can tell, dear boy, no worries, all tickety-wickety-boo_." He mocked, managing an Aziraphale impression so accurate it made his heart speed up in Pavlovian response. "Oh, _great going,_ Aziraphale. Bet you could look Satan in the eye and tell him to floss his teefie-weefies more often!"*

*A demon named Boreas had once attempted to introduce Their Dark Lord to the concept of oral hygiene.

It had... not gone down well.

Suffice to say, Hell's cleaning staff still found Bits of Boreas all about the place.

"You're lucky I planned for this, angel."* Crowley grumbled.

*Look, Crowley was, actually, quite good at alternative ideas and Plan B's, despite what the Esteemed Reader might think.

(Yes, he forgot to also have a Plan C most times, because Crowley was a little stupid in the cleverest of ways, but he usually had at least one backup-failsafe-if-all-else-fails up his sleeve.)

And then he picked up his keys and set off on the long drive to Tadfield.

* * *

  
Adam Young was having a good day.

He'd had a healthy, nutritious breakfast, and then he'd had an actually yummy one, simply because Adam had decided he wanted one; then his chores had found themselves done early with very little input from Adam's side, leaving him to spend the rest of the day doing exactly what he wanted to do.

Life was good, and so Adam was currently on his way to the woods, with Dog bounding along beside him.

(He had a feeling the Johnsonites might try to ambush the Them today, and, of course, if that's what he believed, then that was what would happen.

It was ever so fun, being Lord Of This World.)

"Adam?" A voice drawled, and a tall, shadowy figure peeled itself away from the old war memorial.*

_*Dear Sirs,_ the next letter from R. P. Tyler to the Tadfield Advertiser read. _I am shocked to see strange new hoodlums hanging around the memorial, wicked types with dyed-red hair and dressed all in black that frighten my Shutzi terribly. Now, as a concerned citizen.._. - and it continued on with similar drivel.

"Care to explain... _this?"_

Crowley held up a newspaper. It read _"Inexplicable Impromptu Climate Conference Still Not Explained"_, and featured a picture of the German chancellor staring somberly - and a tad confused - at a ghostly melting polar ice cap.

"Uh." Adam said.

Life was still _good,_ of course, but maybe a hint less so than before...

* * *

"Look." Adam sat down on the steps of the memorial beside Crowley, and R.P. Tyler added the postscriptum of ...and_ our local hoodlums have joined forces with this mysterious newcomer! What IS this village coming to, I ask you!?_

"I heard about it in the news. How the situation's gettin' worse and worse, and how we need to _change_ things. An' I thought... if everybody HAD to do something... I figured it was what was _right._ Like preventing the End of the World. S'more of the same, really."

He shrugged sheepishly, Dog copying the motion. "Didn't mean to worry people."

Crowley discreetly rubbed his temples, trying to stave off the blossoming headache. Good intentions, maybe they _should_ have paved the Road to Hell with them.

Well. At least Aziraphale, who still thought he could only get human newspapers from little children shouting in the streets, wouldn't be among those _worried,_ that was a silver lining.*

*All the news Aziraphale was privy to came either from Heaven's helplessly biased Celestial Observer, or from Crowley printing out relevant online articles and sending them over to the bookshop's absolutely decrepit fax machine.

(Aziraphale kept them all in a folder, for later reference, and meticulously annotated and underlined them.)

The dark, festering cloud beneath said lining, however, proclaimed pointedly that he was going to have to give the literal Antichrist, most powerful being in this world and the next, a stern talking-to.

"Adam." Crowley started awkwardly. It seemed like a good, simple place to start. It was the rest that was going to be tricky.

"Adam, haven't you learned? You can't change things for them, it's not how it works, trust me. You can nudge and goad and suggest, but a human will never do what they're told. Ever."*

*Not since Eve had bitten into the Apple, and Crowley honestly much preferred it that way.

"Yeah." Adam nodded knowingly. "Reverse Sykology. Wensley mentioned it, was in his comic."

"Good for Wensley." Crowley eyed Dog, just on the off-chance the mangy thing might feel like snake for dinner.* "But you do see what I'm getting at, don't you?"

*Dog, meanwhile, was cheerfully observing a butterfly, and generally being his non-threatening, couldn't-hurt-a-fly-because-the-fly-would-hurt-back self.

"But, s'not like I meant to!" Adam defended himself. "I jus'...got angry. About how the world was. And suddenly they were all chained to their seats, and the whales were singing. I tried to fix it! S'not easy."

Oh. Oh no.

It was worse than Crowley had thought.

Adam misusing his powers, alright, fine, seen that before, tell him off and he'll not do it again, responsible kid that he was.

Adam _losing control_ over his powers... that was a new, worrying one.*

*He should've expected it, really. An Antichrist hitting puberty, there was a _reason_ the boy should've started the Apocalypse at the tender age of 11.

"An', you know, it worried me, too. B'cause, what if mum ever makes me angry? Or dad. My human dad. I might hurt them." Adam looked genuinely distressed at the thought. "Or the aliens, I'd feel terrible if I hurt the aliens."*

*As far as important people went, aliens ranked just under the Them, and slightly above his cousin Brendol in Swindon, which was honestly more affection than Brendol deserved for telling on Adam for stealing from the biscuit tin the once.

"What would you say, Adam..." Crowley pushed all doubts away, and put on his most suave grin. "If I told you I could make sure you'd never have to worry about that _ever again?"_

For someone being told there was a solution to all their problems, Adam looked quite concerned indeed.

"You don't have to say yes." Crowley added, abandoning the Tempter's smile for something softer and altogether less insistent. "All I'm doing is offering you a Choice."

"I know." Adam said, and, with a shiver, Crowley recalled that this was _Adam,_ and he truly _did_ know.

Adam plucked at the grass around his shoes. Scratched Dog behind the ear.

Crowley said nothing. It was Adam's decision to make, in the end.

(Though Crowley honestly didn't know what he'd do if he said "no". Leaving Adam as he was, that... that wasn't really an option, no. One had to be realistic about such things when potential Apocalypses were involved.)

"Okay," Adam finally said, and even though he'd quite definitely exercised his Free Will to come to that conclusion, it somehow left the same bitter aftertaste in Crowley's mouth as Eve's response had, so many years ago.

* * *

"It doesn't _hurt,_ does it?" Crowley asked, for the fifteenth time since he had begun, drawing sigils into Adam's soul with a gentle hand.*

*It felt a little like drawing onto the rippling muscles of a tiger, always aware of the sheer power beneath his fingers and the fact that it was only the beast's benevolence ensuring he still _had_ fingers.

"Nah, not at all." Adam watched his movements curiously. "Should it?"

_It did for me_, Crowley thought, but didn't say.

(It wasn't the same, anyway. This specific ritual bound powers, not will. And Crowley would keep telling himself that until his aching curse scars believed it.)

"Not if I do it right." He muttered instead, squinted, and then added a little squiggle.*

*Said squiggle was actually quite vital. It had been omitted during a similar ritual carried out by an unnamed demon shortly before the eruption of Mt. Vesuvius; and yes, those two events _were_ part of a rather explosive cause-and-effect chain.

"There. Done." Crowley awkwardly patted Adam's head. "Powers bound."

"And... this makes sure I won't hurt anyone?" Adam bit his lip. "Ever?"

"Never ever, kid." Crowley ruffled his hair, only marginally less awkward. "Just... maybe don't tell Aziraphale. It'll be _our_ little secret, yes? He need never know."

Adam blinked up at him.

(Crowley waited for the terrifying sensation of being Seen down to your very bones, skin like paper with glass flesh beneath, all your secrets laid bare for the Dark Lord to see and know and _judge_...

...but nothing of the kind occurred.)

"I guess." Adam shrugged. "C'mon, Dog!"

And with that, he was already off to a day of playing, and waiting for an ambush by the Johnsonites that would now never come. A perfectly normal boy, for all intents and purposes.

Crowley didn't really know why he wanted to keep this from Aziraphale.

He was quite certain he'd done the right thing - _and wasn't that strange, wanting to do Good_ \- Aziraphale was always harping on about that, wasn't he, even if he himself got it wrong more often than not.

(They'd argued about it, in the Garden. Funny, how Crowley was still better at Right Things than Aziraphale.

Probably symbolic, all that. Good and evil.

But, since symbolism was one of Heaven's,* and quite silly besides, Crowley happily disregarded that.

*Michael's idea, she'd liked the options it opened up for religious writing.)

It was probably force of habit, Crowley thought as he sauntered back to the Bentley. He was so used to keeping parts of his life from Aziraphale, sometimes the lines around what was "safe" to tell blurred.

Well. Never mind that now, it was done, and Crowley was 99% - 89% - well, at least 70% sure it had been The Right Thing.

Mission accomplished. Powers bound.

World - hopefully - saved.*

*The statistics were, perhaps, a bit optimistic, though we can excuse that by pointing out Crowley's essential optimistic nature.

Premature celebation, however, had always been Aziraphale's, and Crowley...

Crowley really _should_ known better.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Crowley: I did the right thing!  
Me: ........you _ sure _ about that, buddy?
> 
> Repeat after me, children: keeping secrets from your significant other is A Bad Idea.
> 
> (Again, sorry for the long wait, hope you enjoyed!)  
((And if you like Pining and Misunderstandings, do consider giving 'Marriage and Misery' a read, then at least I will have delayed this chapter for a worthy cause! ;)))


	4. In Which It All Goes Pear-Shaped

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Friday the 13th, perfect date to finally get to the Pain(tm)! ;)
> 
> Enjoy!

Those among our Esteemed Readers in a committed relationship may be familiar with the uncertain feeling of foreboding you experience briefly before a quite spectacular domestic, when you walk into a room and perceive the atmosphere as unmistakably charged with dread and the promise of harsh words.

Crowley took one step into the bookshop, and thought _shit_.*

*Well, technically he thought a much ruder word in Ancient Sumerian, but once more we must make do for the ease of our Esteemed Reader.

Aziraphale was primly perched on the sofa, icy silence radiating from him - and we mean that quite literally. The anger of angels tended to interfere with momentum on a subatomic level, leading to rapid drops in temperature in their closer vicinity.

The air around Aziraphale happened to be exactly 7.84°C* colder than normal, which, in layman's terms, indicated a quite spectacular level of pissed-off-ness.

*Fahrenheit, as the Esteemed American Reader might have long suspected, are complete and utter devilry - one of Dagon's greatest accomplishments actually, and the only temperature measurement unit in Hell - and since we would rather not incense Aziraphale's angelic wrath any further, we shall refrain from translating into this unit.**

**The editor, however, has no such qualms - perhaps unwisely - and would like to inform you that this amounts to precisely 14.112°F.

"I didn't do it." Crowley said automatically.

Aziraphale ignored him.

(Now, you might not understand the significance of this, so, for context: Aziraphale had only once, in all their long life, ignored Crowley before, and that had been during the late 70s, when Crowley had spilled red wine on his prized Buggre All Thif bible and said something to the effect of "bah, who cares about some dusty old book" - a mistake, if not a Mistake, the Esteemed Reader will surely agree.

And even then, the temperature had only dropped by five degrees...)

"I can explain?" Crowley amended, trying to back out of the bookshop again. Perhaps, if he came back with pastries, Aziraphale would be in a better...

Crowley's back hit solid wood.

The bookshop no longer had a door, or even windows.

_Bugger,_ Crowley thought.*

*And nothing choicer, since it summed up his current predicament quite nicely.

"Can you, my dear?" Aziraphale said, arching one eyebrow at a particularly dangerous angle. _"Can_ you?"

"Well..." Crowley faltered. "No. I can apologise...?"

Another degree Celsius lost. Crowley was suddenly quite thankful for the woolen scarf he was wearing.*

*It had been a present of Aziraphale's, who had attempted to knit him a sweater, gloves and a hat for the coming winter - Crowley was rather sensitive to cooler climes, _okay_ \- and had ended up with three scarves of varying horrific ugliness.

Crowley's sense of style had briefly warred with his undying love for anything Aziraphale, but ultimately he'd gritted his teeth and begun wearing the neon-coloured and tartan-patterned monstrosities every chance he got.

Aziraphale folded his arms, expectantly staring him down in a "let's hear it, then, before I smite you" kind of way.

Crowley briefly considered asking what exactly it was Aziraphale wanted explained, but there were only three options, really, and between those, he rather hoped it was "only" about Adam.

(The curse was a secret he would much prefer to keep, and... if Aziraphale reacted to Crowley's love with a shoulder that was not only cold but freezing by more than 8°C, then... well, then all was lost, wasn't it.)

"Y'see, angel." Crowley shifted uncomfortably on the spot. "Y'see. He didn't even _mean_ to do it. Was losing control. I... I had to do something, didn't I? The boy was a ticking time bomb, _think_ Aziraphale, an adolescent Antichrist! A spotty, moody kid with the power to make his crush fall in love with him, to wipe his bullies clean off the face of the earth, or to just end the bally thing altogether when his hormones tell him to! I had to nip that in the bud, I had to. He was going to rip the world apart sooner or later, you know he was."

_"That_ is up for debate." Aziraphale glared. "So you simply decided he could not be trusted and took his autonomy away willy-nilly?"

"Oi, I asked him if he was alright with it!" Crowley quickly defended himself.*

*Not least from his own conscience, which had yet to see a guilt trip it didn't happily embark on.

"Oh yes, what a well-contemplated and informed decision!" Aziraphale huffed, and not in the gently exasperated way Crowley so loved to hear. That was an incensed, outraged huff, the kind that cut Crowley to the quick.

"He's a _child,_ Crowley! He had options! Had you come to me, I could've... oh, I don't know, I'm sure there would've been a way to prepare him for what might come! Teach him to meditate. Breathing exercises. Allow him to exercise himself in a controlled environment, instead of... instead of..." Aziraphale floundered briefly. "ROBBING him of what he is!"

"I... I didn't... how do you know about this, anyway!?"

"Adam told me. Said I _do_ need to know, that you shouldn't be keeping _so many secrets_ from me. What else are you hiding, Crowley, I wonder?"

"That's not... that wasn't his to tell, he shouldn't have-" Crowley was suddenly terrified. If Aziraphale commanded him to tell him about everything, the curse, the Apple, and his stupid, foolish love... "He had no right..."

"Oh, but _you_ had a right to take his powers, did you!? Always going on about Choices, and then, THEN!" Aziraphale's arms were no longer crossed, but their stiff position alongside his body, fists shaking, was probably no better sign.*

*The temperature, steadily dropping further, confirmed that impression - a thin veneer of frost was forming on Aziraphale's near-empty cup of cocoa.

"Tell me, Crowley... if Adam had come up to you asking _Questions,_ would you have burned his wings!?"

_Tell me,_ echoed through Crowley's form.

"No," was wrenched from his throat before he could stop it, curse screaming, searing, burning through his blood. "No, no, never."*

*And he wouldn't, he truly wouldn't. _Questions_ wasn't chaining foreign leaders to a conference table (with good intentions yes, but chaining nonetheless), _Questions_ was just Questions.

"Don't lie to me!"

"Never", Crowley croaked again. "I've never lied to you." _And now I never will._

"Oh, but you've kept secrets, Crowley, haven't you? Lying by omission, tell me, are we on our own side or are we not!?" Aziraphale spat. "You hypocrite, thrice-damned hypocrite!"

Crowley reeled. He barely understood why Aziraphale was so furious, vaguely aware that it might be more the secret-keeping than the deed itself - though it really ought to be the other way around, he'd been keeping information from Aziraphale since the dawn of time after all - and every single word, every order, scorched and burned like Hellfire.*

*Except that Hellfire didn't actually hurt Crowley, but the Esteemed Reader surely knows what he means.

In Hell, if somebody attacked you, you retaliated first and attempted diplomacy _never._

Crowley, for all that he had risen far above the Hellish rabble, was still, in essence, a demon, and possessed of a demon's instinct.

"Hypocrite, eh?" He spat back. "Seems we still are two of a kind, after all! Tell me, what would you _really_ have suggested? Smiting, or some slightly more humane way of killing? Come on Aziraphale, I know what you're like!"

"I NEVER-" Aziraphale spluttered.

"Oh, but _you're_ allowed to lie to _me!?_ You were going to shoot that kid, angel, and you had the Thundergun to prove it!"

"That was before I knew we could TALK to him!"

"YEAH, and s'what I did! TALKED TO HIM! Like I talked to Eve, I did the right bloody thing, Aziraphale! S'not demon-like, but I BLOODY WELL DID!"

"No. No, no, not at all." Aziraphale glared. "We're going to Tadfield _right this instant_, and we're undoing it. For once I'll overlook your atrocious driving, get the car-"

"No!" Crowley interrupted him, quickly, before Aziraphale could trigger the curse. "We only just _saved_ this world! If you want to doom it again.... well, fine! Go ahead! But I might as well... as well... might as well ACTUALLY go to bloody alpha bloody centauri!"

And then, Crowley, like a serpent-demon spotting a vulnerable cherub far away from its flock, went in for the kill.

_"I wish I'd gone the first time."_ He hissed.

Aziraphale looked, for a terrible, painful moment, utterly stricken.

Not unlike... not unlike Crowley had felt when... oh dear, that was the kind of expression one wore when one's heart was breaking in one's chest, wasn't it?*

*It was indeed, and Crowley would never fully forgive himself for putting it on Aziraphale's face.

Crowley instantly regretted it, opened his mouth to take it all back, apologise and take Aziraphale out for the best sushi in the world, buy him a first edition or two, whatever it took to-

"Oh. Well. Fine then." Aziraphale said, face a mask of terrible, terrible calm. "Go."

The first bite of the curse was the most terrible moment of Crowley's life to date, and that included the Apocalypse - though perhaps not the times he'd thought Aziraphale gone.

It started so inconspicuous, like a cramp, a twinge, a nerve unfortunately caught between bone and sinew, but Crowley knew what it _meant_ and that knowledge was worse even than distilled agony stabbed into every neuron individually.

"Yes, go!" Aziraphale continued, picking up steam. "Perhaps that would be for the better! No, not another word from you, go to alpha centauri, don't let me keep you! Go right now, and, and..."

_Please, angel._ Crowley begged, with only his eyes because his mouth would no longer obey him. _Please, please don't, I'm sorry, please..._

"...and NEVER come back! I'll not have you crawling back here tomorrow with false apologies Crowley, we are... it is _done,_ do you hear? You said we were on our own side, we are _evidently_ not..." Aziraphale, for the briefest of moments, looked heartbroken again, before resolutely re-squaring his jaw. "I-I don't even want to see you _ever again,_ you can... oh, you can bally well stay on alpha centauri until the heat death of the universe, what would I even care!"

_No. Oh no, oh God, please no, please have mercy..._

"Go." Aziraphale pointed at him, and oh, he was so furious, and yet Crowley couldn't look away, it would be his last chance, _never see him again, heat death of the universe, oh Lord, oh Satan, mercy on Crowley's rotten not-soul..._ "Go NOW."

The command slammed into Crowley like a truck into an Express Delivery man, smashing all his innards into a pulp and ripping his skin apart to reveal the broken heart underneath.

_Ah yes. THERE'S the_ distilled_ agony._

Crowley was a little surprised to finally look down at his hands and not see bones protruding from them, every little bit of him screaming out in unison, and relief, the _only_ relief, was lightyears away, far, far from here.

He looked back at Aziraphale, this angel he loved and had trusted, _always_ trusted never to make him feel the burn of an order, and let out a soft whimper that turned quite sob-like towards the end.*

*One tiny corner of Aziraphale's mouth twitched into compassion, but the rest firmly pulled it down into displeasure again.

And then the pain built into something absolutely unbearable and Crowley scrambled to obey, whirling on the spot and sprinting for the bookshop's recently-reappeared door on burning legs, with not a single word of goodbye except raw, choked sobs.

This was Crowley's nightmare, quite literally. He'd woken up screaming from scenarios like this.

It couldn't be real, it _couldn't_. It would all go away, just a bad dream, in the blink of an eye.

Crowley blinked. It still hurt a little, not to look where he was going, even after all these years - and that wasn't even factoring in the tears complicating the matter.

It wasn't going away.

As Crowley wrenched open the door and burst out into a peaceful, slightly drizzly morning for the last time, the last time, THE LAST TIME, useless prayers were running in circles through his head.

_Stop this, Lord, please, let me stay with him, break the curse, don't make me go, don't make me, please, Mother, help me Mother, PLEASE..._

Nobody answered.*

*Unsurprisingly, the cynics among the Esteemed Readers might quip.

However, simply because a deity gives no answer doesn't necessarily mean that said deity isn't sitting on the very edge of Her cloud-sofa cushions, throwing Her ambrosia-flavoured popcorn at the screen and complaining loudly to Her son about _"subverting expectations,"_ and how the plotline had made so much more sense in the earlier millennia.

(Jesus wisely kept his mouth shut and neglected to remind Her that She was Creator Of All - including pining, communication failure, and obedience curses - and that this was therefore ultimately all Her fault.

He had the feeling that would not go down well with Her.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Poor boy is off to alpha centauri now, and Aziraphale doesn't even know what he's done... secrets always contain the seeds of your own destruction, Crowley dear.
> 
> (Feel free to shout at me in the comments... ;) I do deserve it after the Pain(tm)!)
> 
> <3


	5. In Which The Unprecedented Happens

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Me: alright then, let's write about how the last chapter's events impact Aziraphale and Crowley  
My brain: but what if... outsider POV.  
Me: uh...  
My brain: and random comedic side character OCs.  
Me: .....satanblessit.

Flynn Hastings was an estate agent.

As a general rule, estate agents, unsurprisingly, led horrendously boring lives.

In fact, Flynn's cousin, who was a medical researcher and therefore far more interesting - why aren't we writing about _her,_ anyway? She's just discovered a new type of penicillin! - had once read a paper that postulated that nothing fun or interesting had EVER happened to those in the professions of estate-agenting, bookkeepering, and international espionage, and aside from the statistical error inherent in the last example, the science had seemed sound.

Flynn, however, was the one exception to prove the rule, as we will see when we follow him through a day that, by rights, should be horrendously and predictably boring.

* * *

Flynn* lived in a perfectly boring flat in a perfectly boring neighbourhood, which was, perhaps, best described as Soho's conservative aunt who scoffed at her young relative's extravagant lifestyle.

*The Esteemed Reader may point out here that "Flynn" was not, actually, the most boring of names, very nearly bordering on the peculiar; this uncommonly un-boring aspect of him was due to Flynn's mother briefly deluding herself into thinking that her newborn son might actually be in any way interesting - once he was grown up, at least, since he had already been a particularly dreary infant.

She turned out to be sadly mistaken; and now most people assumed the F. of F. Hastings** stood for Fred, or something similarly nondescript.

**A Particularly Contrary - yet still Esteemed, naturally - Reader may also choose to question the boringness of "Hastings", being a battle and involving arrows getting quite uncomfortably close to eyes.

We assure said Reader that, if they ever had the pleasure - or perhaps "pleasure" is too _interesting_ a term to use - _the neutral experience_ of personally encountering Flynn, they would instantly know that _his_ Hastings was not related to the battle one in any way, and therefore not infused with even a smidgen of its interestingness.

His morning routine was so depressingly run-of-the-mill we see no need to describe it any further. Simply think of the most boring morning you can remember, multiply it by a factor of ten, that will very nearly come close to the type of morning Flynn Hastings had.

He put on a suit so boring and devoid of any distinctive features he might as well have been naked - except that would actually have been interesting, and that, you may already have realised, was NOT how Flynn Hastings rolled.

Then he went to work. By foot, and boringly so.

Other people in other professions might hum a tune on their way to work, or plan their lunch, or think about their friends, family and pets.

Flynn thought about being an estate agent, and what kinds of estates he would be agenting that day, in the most dry, clinical and - you may have guessed it - boring words you could possibly imagine.

(We can tell you're drifting off, Esteemed Reader. Please do bear with us for just a moment longer.)

This was, in part, because his way to work led him through Soho, and _Heaven forbid_ he ever note something interesting even in passing.

So Flynn took no notice of the lesbian couple sporking* in a nearby doorway, nor the nice young gentleperson with a broader colour spectrum in their hair than humans could perceive, and unfazedly prepared to cross the street at the corner of A. Z. Fell's bookshop, whose outward appearance was just about boring enough to register with him.

*A rather exciting middle ground between spooning and forking, though not at all compatible with kniving or that delightful activity known under the name of "reverse chopsticks".

And that, Dear Reader - we can hear you snoring, do wake up - was when, for the first time in the history of the universe, something actually _exciting_ happened to an estate agent.

A man in a black suit and sunglasses - as well as an absolutely horrendous scarf - burst out the door of the bookshop with a desperate sound nearly like a whimper.

Normally, Flynn would ignore this, except the man barged right ahead and ran straight into him, and even then continued on, knocking him to the ground.*

*Peculiar since, even with the shades, the man should've been able to see him early enough to adjust his trajectory, had he had a mind - or the ability? - to do so.

"Oi." Flynn Hastings droned, in the kind of voice that was just ever so slightly nasal, and otherwise entirely boring. "Careful."

The man didn't even look back.

Now, until this precise moment, one might still explain this away as strange, but by no means _interesting._ Gangly men in strange outfits ran over boring men in boring suits all the time, especially in Soho; nothing to write home about.

Except, as Flynn was still sitting on the ground, not so much glaring after the perpetrator than send a vague air of being inconvenienced after him, the man's sharp suit jacket split at the back, revealing a pair of... _wings._

They flexed, stretched, beat the air once, twice...

And then, with a sound like a choked sob, the man took flight.

Flynn stared after him.

He had never taken drugs, of course, but suddenly wished he had, if just to use them as a way to explain... this.

He'd seen... seen...

Something inexplicable. Something extraordinary. Something peculiar. Something...

_...interesting._

And so, the unprecedented took place, and Flynn Hastings, estate agent, experienced a moment of sheer, undiluted interestingness.

(Later in the day, Flynn would also be abducted by aliens, meet the love of his life, fight a duel for xyz tentacle in marriage, and become intergalactic ambassador of earth, leading the universe into a new golden age together with his beloved...

...but this story isn't about _Flynn,_ is it?

So this is where we will abandon him to his fate and return to our cherished protagonists instead.)

* * *

"Well. Good riddance, I say!" Aziraphale huffed, looking up and down the street and finding it empty.*

*Except for a very shaken man in a dusty-yet-still-boring suit, staggering to his feet and blissfully ignorant of the UFO hovering in a cloud overhead, just waiting for its chance.

Aziraphale slammed the door shut, not forgetting to flip the little sign to "closed", and solemnly vowed never to open it to pretend-remorseful serpents _ever again._

And Aziraphale stuck to that vow... for all of fifteen minutes.

Five to grumble, another five to quietly seethe, then a handful of seconds to miracle himself a soothing cocoa, and by the time he'd forcefully gulped it down, the guilt was already starting to creep up.

His words had evidently hit Crowley hard, for him to flee so quickly.

And... and the expression on his face...

Aziraphale had seen his fair share of despair.*

*He didn't always acknowledge it, in case Heaven heartily condoned it - like the seven plagues - but he could never quite close his eyes to it.

And what had hushed over Crowley's face that brief instant before he ran had most definitely been despair.

Aziraphale hesitated. Fussed with his first editions. Gulped down another cup of cocoa.

And then, he finally gave in with a soft huff, and reached for the phone.

An operator answered, simply because Aziraphale forgot on occasion that phones no longer worked like that, and cheerfully connected him to Crowley's phone.

"Crowley? Oh, good, you- what are you saying- why aren't you... what's that mean, 'beep'? Look, Crowley, I'm trying to say... that is... I would very much like to still have dinner with you tonight, if you'd be amenable? And... I am sorry, my dear, for my harsh words and... We'll talk about it, yes?"

Crowley did not respond.*

*Mobile service was notoriously spotty past Jupiter - except for Neptune, where you still got up to three bars if the weather was good - so that message would continue to sit idly as vague static sounds in Crowley's inbox.

"Cheerio." Aziraphale placed the receiver back in its cradle, only a hint choked, and hoped Crowley's silence was not a bad sign.

It would all be resolved, surely. Aziraphale could not bear to have a proper falling out, not now that they were, if not on the same page, at least in adjacent and compatible chapters (as long as Aziraphale hid the paragraph mentioning all that "desperately in love" business), and he dearly hoped Crowley would agree.

It could all be talked out, surely.

Surely.

* * *

Aziraphale had not made reservations at the Ritz, but then again, he never needed to.*

*The only reservation Aziraphale had ever placed was at the Royal Albert Hall for the 1969 Pink Floyd concert in which Crowley had had a hand, and into which not even a miracle could've gotten him without.

(It had been rather nice, for bebop, in Aziraphale's opinion, though the gorilla suit had perhaps been a _bit_ much, and he wished he hadn't sat _quite_ that close to the cannons.)

He arrived early, was seated at their usual table, and, as always, thanked the waiter profusely to the point of unbearable awkwardness on both sides.

He ordered a bottle of wine - inexplicably better than what the Ritz usually stocked, which was already quite good - and nibbled at a complementary bread roll, waiting idly for Crowley to appear.*

*Aziraphale did not think for a second that Crowley wouldn't. That was simply not how the two of them operated.

When the full hour crept around, Aziraphale snuck one anxious glance after another towards the door.

Crowley had a deep and abiding love for the concept of fashionable lateness, but he was always on time when it came to Aziraphale.

Surely, surely, he would saunter in any minute now, still sulking perhaps, but pleased with the wine - incidentally Crowley's favourite vintage - and they could finally talk things out. Aziraphale would apologise again, of course, assure Crowley that he had been out of line, to say what he said, and that he held him in high regard and would never want to be separated again, that they would find a better solution for the Adam situation, yes, and all would perfectly spiffy and tickety-boo, surely, surely...

Quarter past. The breadsticks were gone. Aziraphale sipped the wine, and unabashedly stared at the entrance, jumping every time the door swung open.

Half past. The waiting staff was throwing him pitying glances, one of them finally daring to ask if he would like to order his meal now.

Aziraphale refused, worrying with the tablecloth.

It suddenly occurred to him that the unimaginable might, in fact, be imaginable after all; Crowley, as out of character as it seemed, as unprecedented as it was, might actually... _not come._

And then, another entirely unprecedented happening took place: Aziraphale lost all appetite.

* * *

The Maître d'Hôtel* had been head of the Ritz's waitstaff for nigh on six years now. In those six years, Mr. Fell and Mr. Crowley had attended the Ritz exactly one hundred and seventeen times, and, without a doubt, they were her favourite guests.

*The Maître d' obviously also had a name, which, in case the Esteemed Reader would like to know, happened to be Anya Kozlowska; however, she was the stern type of professional who firmly believed in keeping business and private life as separate as ex-spouses after a particularly ugly divorce, including a lawsuit, copious savings squirreled away to off-shore accounts, _and_ a custody disagreement over their shared pug which escalated terribly; and therefore rarely thought of herself as Anya during work hours.

Hence, neither shall we.

Some of the younger employees believed the two were business acquaintances, distant friends, but the Maître d', she knew love when she saw it, and had spent the handful of dates shortly after the legalisation of gay marriage carefully checking their hands for rings* - in a discreet, professional manner, of course.

*She was convinced that, one day, she would catch a glimpse of them kissing outside on the pavement, watch their fingers entwined on the tablecloth, or - this was her favourite - some evening, one of them, likely Mr. Fell, would take her aside, and request champagne, handing her a little diamond ring to put into Mr. Crowley's flute.

Only, this evening... this evening, Mr. Fell was sitting all alone, features unmistakably spelling out heartbreak, looking as if he knew, deep down, that his partner wasn't coming, but still could not bring himself to leave, because that would somehow make it all too real.*

*The Maître d' knew the feeling. She'd been stood up a few times, before meeting her wife, and it had always hurt like hell.**

**Not that she truly knew what _that_ felt like. Humans used phrases such as these as casually as only beings could who had never experienced the true hurt Hell could put you through, and no demon - and no angel - would ever make light of it in such a manner.

Making her decision, the Maître d' slipped into the kitchens, and returned shortly after with a plate of macarons.

Macarons were not, technically, on today's menu, but all she had to say was "Mr. Crowley is an hour late", and all the patissiers - plus one junior entremetier, whose enthusiasm was noted before being sent back to his station - instantly dropped whatever they were doing to throw together Mr. Fell's favourite.*

*Mr. Fell and Mr. Crowley were well known and loved by all of the Ritz's staff, not least because of the humongous betting pool, which currently held over a thousand quid, a diamond necklace, and the rights to a small ostrich farm in the Australian outback.

"Mr. Fell?" The Maître d' did her best to turn her careful non-expression into something open and - perish the thought, but it had to be done - _friendly_. "Sir? Would you like-"

"Oh!" Mr. Fell flinched, and gave her a polite, rather distracted smile, eyes consistently flitting back to the doors. "Mrs. Kozlowska, good evening my dear. I don't suppose you've received a call from my usual dining partner? He should be..."

Hands wringing. Shaking. Anya's* heart broke a little.

*And it _was_ Anya, in this instance. Worrying was not done on company time, and if you couldn't help it, you at least did it in your own name.

"...he should be here by now."

"Sadly not, sir." The words seemed to impact Mr. Fell like a physical blow, and the Maître d' offered her plate to soften it. "Would you like a macaron while you wait?"

Mr. Fell shook his head. "No, thank you, I find myself with little appetite."

A chorus of gasps went up from the waitstaff who had been intently listening in, as well as a handful of regulars who had also taken notice of the older gentleman of the pansy-ish variety sitting without his usual paramour.

Mr. Fell, refusing macarons; it was evidently worse than expected.

"I was..." He glanced at his pocket watch, and seemed to acknowledge the grim reality it presented. "...only just going, I suppose."

"Is everything-" The Maître d' tried, because sod discreet professionalism, Anya _cared_.

"Oh, no need to worry, my dear." Mr. Fell smiled sadly. "We had a little disagreement, that is all - I was, perhaps, uncommonly harsh - and it appears I have... I have not been forgiven yet. Thank you, for the asking, and for the macarons, may I have the cheque please?"

"It's on the house, sir." She responded immediately.

"Nonsense, dear lady, I have been pointlessly taking up one of your tables for over an hour, the least I can do is pay for my wine and dessert!" Mr. Fell huffed, and for a brief, shining moment he was the man who habitually quibbled over the bill with his dining partner.*

*Mr. Crowley usually ended up paying, mostly because Mr. Fell was never trying _too_ hard to convince him, and batted his eyelashes most coyly when he was finally treated to the meal in its entirety.

He settled the bill - tipping generously, as was his and Mr. Crowley's wont - and shrugged back into his coat.

(Fell was not a tall man, but now he seemed even smaller, shoulders rolled inwards and drooping like a snowman contemplating mortality in the early spring sun.)

"We hope to see you again, soon." The Maître d' bid him farewell.

"...both of you." She added, after a brief moment of thought, and actually allowed herself a smile.

"Ah, that makes two of us." Mr. Fell quipped weakly, and with a final "give my best to your lady wife", he slipped out into the night.

Now, the Maître d' would never claim she had the full story, maybe half of it at the very most,* but she nonetheless had the sudden urge to grab Mr. Crowley by the shoulders and shake him quite forcefully - Mr. Fell too, she supposed, if only to be thorough.

*Considering she laboured under the misapprehensions that her patrons were A) mortal, B) not celestial beings, and C) married/as good as/dating, or had, at the very least, enjoyed the pleasure of each other's D), she barely even had a tenth.

People hurt each other, yes, it happened all the time. But not Mr. Fell and Mr. Crowley.

She'd never seen two people so deeply and unequivocally in love, as comfortable together as if they had stood beside each other since the Garden of Eden, and nothing short of the Apocalypse could keep them apart.

(And, perhaps, not even that.)

Resuming her mask of Professional Conduct (capitalisations particularly close to her heart), she went to the kitchen to wrap up the macarons. Perhaps her wife might enjoy them.*

*A more superstitious person would not want macarons exposed to such a palpable aura of heartbreak anywhere near their spouse, but Anya was more practical than that.

And if she noticed some of the waitstaff fret and worry in hushed tones, the Maître d' was far gentler with them than she usually would be.

They _cared,_ and there was nothing wrong with caring.

(There _was_ something wrong with sub-par customer service, however, so they were reprimanded nonetheless.)

* * *

Aziraphale, after multiple hours of quiet fretting - the details of which we shall omit, since those thoughts rather tended towards the circular and repetitive - went to Crowley's flat the next day, armed with the steely resolve of one who wants to sort an unpleasant business out, and a bottle of extremely fine Châteauneuf-du-Pape which could not have been more obviously a peace offering if the label had read "l'offeauringe d'péaceaux".

He knocked.*

*In Aziraphale's head, doorbells had not developed beyond lionhead knockers and little ropes to pull, and the speaker system at the front entrance had already confused him deeply.

Nobody answered. In fact, the silence was so complete, Crowley was either not home, or keeping very, very still in the hope Aziraphale might assume so, which was hardly any better.

"Crowley?" Aziraphale called plaintively. "I... I cannot apologise enough, my dear. Are you home? We might talk."

Silence.

"I didn't mean any of it, you know that, do you not? Please. Open the door, at least."

The sound of an explosion in a vacuum, which, despite what selected SciFi shows might like you to think, was still _silence._

"Look, we can solve this. I forgive you for all the business with Adam, I will_ always_ and forever forgive you, all I ask is that you award me the same courtesy, really, very impolite of you not to show for dinner, the _looks_ the staff gave me, but never mind that, _I forgive you Crowley,_ only, just..."

Aziraphale's voice trembled, cracked, desperately searched for something to hold it together, found nothing, and so, ultimately, broke.

"...Crowley, _p-please."_

Footsteps.

Footsteps behind him.

"Crowley-!" Aziraphale beamed, and whirled around.

Now, Crowley, as the Esteemed Reader might be aware, was a spindly man-shaped being of indeterminate age that leaned steadily towards the middle ground, often seen wearing sunglasses and a besotted expression.

A little old lady, with little round reading glasses perched on her not-all-that-little nose, could therefore not be mistaken for Crowley under any circumstances.

Aziraphale's longing, desperate heart tried for a second or two, nonetheless, before giving up and acknowledging this was merely Crowley's downstairs neighbour.

"Mr. Cowwely hashn't been home shince yeshterday." She mumbled.*

*Despite what the Esteemed Reader might think, she had _not_ forgotten to put in her dentures.

The problem was merely that she didn't actually _require_ any, and forgot that on occasion.

"You could leave a meshage with me, if you'd like, dearie?"

"No, no, that... that will be fine. Thank you."

Aziraphale hurried past her down the stairs, and only got more agitated when he passed the Bentley in front of the door.*

*Crowley had studiously neglected to take it that fateful morning, choosing to walk instead and intending to act very surprised when the time came to return to his flat in the evening and there was no transport to be had, what a shame, might he not stay over?

Not at the flat.

The Bentley still there.

Not even a hint of Crowley's demonic aura far and wide, even if Aziraphale strained and stretched and checked very, _very_ closely.

Crowley hadn't...

Crowley hadn't _really_ gone to...

.......had he?

* * *

  
"Hello? Ah, yes, Ms. Device. What? Oh. Er. Well, well, yes, and yourself? Oh, lovely, my dear. No, I was only wondering, Crowley hasn't... been in contact has he? In the last few days? No? ...I see. Thank y- oh, no, no, it's all fine. No worries. A little domestic, perfectly tickety-boo. Yes. Good day to you."

* * *

"Madame? Oh yes, lovely to hear your voice again. ...no, no, this is not about having tea, it's only, Crowley and I had a bit of a fight, he hasn't, perhaps... oh, really, it's not like that. Ludicrous suggestion, I wish you'd take this seriously. Ehem. So he hasn't been calling the past week? ...not Mr. Shadwell, either? ...ah. O-oh dear. No, it's quite alright, dear girl, merely a c-cold, I shall be fine m-momentarily. Give >sniff< my best regards to Mr. Shadwell - I am NOT crying, Madame! - and we shall have tea... sometime. Goodbye."

* * *

(And once, during a dark and lonely night, whispered into folded hands, _"Lord, send me a sign, show me he is well, only that, and oh, ask him if he has forgiven me yet, tell him I apologise, bring him back to me, Mother please...",_ but he received as little answer as ever.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, the 1969 Pink Floyd concert really did happen that way, and nobody can tell me Crowley wasn't involved.  
(The things you learn from random fic research...)
> 
> Hope you enjoyed Aziraphale realising the error of his ways (except not quite), and stay tuned for Plot(tm) developing in the next chapter!  
^-^ <3


	6. Intermission: In Which Plot Develops

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Very little Aziraphale and Crowley in this chapter, but plenty of Them to make up for it!
> 
> Let's see how well Adam is coping, since his godfathers clearly *aren't,* and they've not even lost their Antichrist powers...  
<3

Adam's life had gotten significantly less good in the past week.

While he was still a child living in a small, idyllic village with his best friends - and there honestly couldn't possibly a better life, the Esteemed Reader will surely agree - Adam had rather grown accustomed to certain commodities which existence no longer provided for him.

Weather, for instance. It was drizzling lightly, as it had been for days, the type of rain that neither allowed for plentiful puddles to jump into, nor provided rainbows, and which only served to make everything unpleasantly damp. And it was still somewhat summer, too! Tadfield had not seen rain like this in years, much less in quasi-summer.*

*Adam's understanding was that the year consisted of 150 days of hot, crisp summer, 150 days of winter with plenty of snow revelry to be had, 50 days of spring around Easter, and two weeks of extra dramatic autumn storms around Halloween.

His chores were suddenly tougher, his parents stricter, and all the games they played got boring more quickly - not to mention the Johnsonites, who seemed much less interested in gang battles and had gone to a tropical fish exhibition yesterday rather than engage the Them in valiant combat, despite the cool mud fort they'd built.

The world was not revolving around Adam anymore, and, as any child that had recently been dethroned by a younger sibling can tell you, that was an altogether unpleasant experience.

But it was good. It was fine.

Adam very firmly told himself it was worth it, because it was. He got to be angry at politicians for destroying the planet without the risk of him destroying the politicians, which, as he had learned the hard, apocalyptic way, was not a viable solution.

And it felt good, to be utterly and truly mad at people, to rant and rave without having to worry about your ranting and raving turning into ravaging and razing-to-the-ground.

Adam had greatly enjoyed shouting at the politicians on the telly, and then at his father - well, his room's door after he was sent to bed early for shouting - and he intended to shout at his teachers when school began again.

(This would likely get him a detention or two, but some things were simply worth it.)

Life was still good. It was.

In a different way, perhaps. Less objectively so.

But good, nonetheless.

(Adam worried, sometimes, about Aziraphale and Crowley, and would rather like to know whether they'd finally talked things out - for grown-ups, they were startlingly bad at talking, Adam thought, even though talking seemed to be all grownups did all day - but since Knowing Things was one of the commodities he now had to go without, he was left to worry and wonder.)

On that day, a drizzly and unpleasant morning, Adam and the Them sat in Hogback Wood, huddled under their raincoats and trying to pretend they weren't cold, damp and just a little bit bored.

"...Adam?" Pepper began, apropos of nothing and more than a little hesitantly.

(The Esteemed Reader will already guess something quite major is afoot. Pepper, they will surely be aware, did _not_ do things hesitantly.)

"I need to tell you guys something."

Adam, who had been trying and failing to make Dog play dead,* glanced up at her.

*Dog, being a demonic Hellhound, was not all that familiar with the concept of death, and therefore quite confused as to what His Master wanted of him.

"Go ahead, Pepper." He said.

(Well, technically he said "Come on, silly mutt! It's not that - yeah, sure, Pep - not that hard! Just don't move and let your tongue hang out!", but he certainly meant to give her the go-ahead.)

"I think I like girls." Pepper said, matter-of-factly.

Brian and Wensleydale blinked.

Like always when Pepper did something inexplicably Pepper-ish that didn't make sense to them, they looked to Adam first.

Adam looked to Dog, since it didn't really make sense to him, either.

Dog, unsurprisingly, was of no help.

"Well?" Pepper crossed her arms in front of her chest.

"But... you don't like girl things, Pepper." Brian muttered, uncertain. "You always go on about how they're stupid."

"So?" Pepper's stance got a hint more defensive.* "I still like the girls themselves."

*A clear warning sign. A Pepper backed into a corner was a very, very dangerous Pepper.

"Why's that news, then?" Adam finally involved himself in the conversation. "Ev'rybody has people they like, don't they? Don't see what all the fuss's about."

"Yeah, but. I just like girls." Pepper paused for emphasis, and a little bit for dramatic effect. "Not boys."

Now, it may be worth noting that, when Adam first read the term LGBTQ+ in the New Aquarian, he had assumed it to be a species of aliens, and found them quite fascinating, marveling at these beings who were so much more colourful and vibrant than anything boring old humanity had to offer.*

*He was a little jealous, in fact, because having rainbow hair and being able to transform into another gender did sound quite cool, even though Adam specifically had no interest in becoming a girl.

(He _did_ want rainbow hair, though.)

The thought that these were normal humans, being normal and humans and just liking different things... well, that never really occurred to him.

And that might, perhaps, explain why Adam categorically failed to understand what Pepper was trying to tell him.*

*Additionally, the only version of The Talk Adam had ever received consisted mostly of his father puffing his pipe, looking deeply uncomfortable, and eventually grunting "use protection" before going back to his newspaper.

(Of the Them, only Pepper really knew where babies came from - her mother had been very open about these things - since Brian's parents were still arguing over which of them had the dubious honour of explaining birds and bees and what happened when certain body parts were inserted into others, and Wensley had read about mitosis in his comic - _Wonders of Nature and Science,_ it's quite good actually - and assumed it extended to multicellular organisms as well.**

**In the not-so-far future, Wensleydale senior would hear of this, and hand his youngster 20£ with clear instructions to go to the nearest bookshop and purchase a book on anatomy and the human body.

This would greatly further the Them's understandings of How Things Worked, though they all wished they hadn't gotten the illustrated version.)

Now, in poor Adam's naive mind, uneducated in the grisly details of sexual and romantic attraction, Pepper's statement registered roughly as follows:

_Pepper says she likes girls._

_Pepper says she doesn't like boys._

_I'm a boy._

_Brian is a boy._

_Wensley is a boy._

_Dog is a boy dog._

_She doesn't like us anymore, because she likes girls instead._

Having connected all these dots, Adam arrived at the heartshattering conclusion:

_Pepper wants to join a girl gang and leave the Them behind._

"You CAN'T!" Adam exploded.

Pepper flinched, but only for a moment before the girl that had bitten Adam in the foot for giving her lip rose up from the pit of her stomach, and got her feet-gnawing teeth ready.

"Yeah, I CAN, you misogynistic stupidface!"* She snapped. "NOBODY gets to tell people who they can or can't like!"

*Pepper had learned the word "misogyny" from her mother, and knew that it was the worst of the worst of insults you could throw at somebody's head, because misogynists were Right Up There in the ranking of horrible people in the world, together with chauvinists and climate change deniers.

(The word "stupidface" came from Brian, and Adam was rather upset _he_ hadn't come up with it, seeing as it was so absolutely brilliant for insulting.)

"Actually... I don't understand this, Pepper." Wensleydale inquired politely. "When you say you don't like boys-"

This question would've continued somewhat along the lines of "what about all your best friends being boys?", and Pepper would've explained the difference between liking someone and _liking_ someone, and this all might've been resolved.

However, he never got to finish his sentence, since Adam interrupted him.

"YES, I DO!" Adam shouted. "You don't like stupid girls wif stupid cooties, Pepper, and tha's that!"

They glared at each other.

(We would like to point out to the Esteemed Reader once more that Adam is in no way opposed to the concept of lesbianism. It actually sounds rather grand to him, girls being with girls and boys being with boys.

However, when an insecure little boy on the cusp of puberty is told he is not wanted anymore, is being replaced with others, especially if that little boy is very used to being - quite literally - the most important person in the whole wide world, well, that boy tends to lash out.

Adam was lashing quite forcefully, thinking Pepper might see sense if he just told her how stupid her girls gang idea was.*

*He was clearly forgetting the fact that Pepper reacted to such things by lashing back with equal force; but Adam tended to not think that far ahead when he had an idea, however inadvisable.)

"I _hate_ you, Adam Young." Pepper hissed, coldly.

Adam swallowed hard. Beside him, Dog let out a little whine in sympathy.

"Alright then." He sniffed. "I don't like you, either. We don't want stupid girls in the Them anyway!"

He turned to Brian and Wensleydale with a fake grin.

"Right?"

Brian bit his lip, and took a sudden interest in his shoes. Wensley adjusted his glasses, glancing back and forth between Adam's smile and Pepper's scowl.

"Actually, Adam..." He began haltingly. "The last time you said you could make people be somethin' they're not, it was a really bad idea, an' I just don't think..."

He squared his shoulders a little. "Actually, I think it's very mean of you to say that, an' if liking things you don't like gets Pepper thrown out of the Them, then I don't like you!"

He crossed his arms, and stomped over to Pepper.

"Then... then... Brian and me don't want YOU in the Them, either!" Adam stammered.

"We'll see about that!" Pepper snapped, grabbing Wensley's arm and holding out her other hand to Brian. _"You_ don't want to be in a gang with him either, do you?'

Brian didn't say anything.

Now, Brian, if the Esteemed Reader would care to know, would later in life discover that he actually liked boys and girls equally much, and, after a disastrous blind date in college, a very stupid bet and a drunk dive into a nearby pond - it would be a wild night - come to the realisation he rather liked Wensleydale specifically.*

*A quite mortifying situation, seeing as this would occur to him right as he was tenderly embracing the loo for the second time, and Wensley set his algebra notes aside to rub his back and say "actually, I think the homework can wait".

(Any realisation of feelings that involves the expulsion of fluids from the body even tangentially is by definition a mortifying one.)

Luckily for Brian, Wensleydale was rather fond of him too, so that would all work out for the best.

On that drizzly day in the woods, however, Brian was entirely unaware of any of this, and the only reason he eventually shuffled over to take Pepper's hand was that it was two against one, and Pepper got the biggest allowance to buy sweets with.

Together, the three left.

Adam stared after them, mouth hanging open.

If he still had his powers, this would never have happened. The other Them had never questioned him, simply because Adam Was Always Right - and if he wasn't, he could _make it so._

"Fine!" He shouted after them. "Go! Dog and I don't want you, anyway! We don't need you! In fact, we... we hate you! So there!"

A little tear ran down Adam's cheek. It was not Adam's, of course, he was in no way affiliated with it, and did not endorse what it stood for.

He shouldn't have let Crowley bind his powers. If he was still the Antichrist, he could make them come back. Make them be his friends, now and always.

_Make them be sorry for leaving._

One of the sigils scratched into Adam's soul wavered, bent out of shape, and something huge and terrifying and angry (and scared and alone) broke out of him.*

*In a nearby cottage, the radiant edge of a powerful aura flashed through Anathema's field of vision.

However, since she was quite, er, _occupied_ at that point, she attributed this to Newt doing a marvelous little twisty movement with his tongue, and thought no more of it.

It flew through the trees, the Fury of Hell taken metaphysical form, an unseen force ripping through branches and leaves and the very fabric of reality itself, and, if Dog had not barked at the very last moment, prompting Pepper to hesitate for just a fraction of a second, it would've gone straight through...

Would've hit...

Suddenly all the fight left Adam.

He nearly... nearly... he'd _nearly._

(Pepper and the others never even noticed, assuming Adam was ignoring them now, and continued on their not so merry and more grumpy way.)

Adam sat down where he stood, and cried.*

*He might as well admit to it, seeing as he'd just almost killed one of his best friends in the world, even if she didn't like him anymore, what was a little thing like crying against that?

Dog whined, and licked the tears from his face, but even his best attempts at playing _....dead.....?_ could not cheer His Master up.

* * *

Far, far away, an angel was miserable, and quite a bit further away by a significant order of magnitude, a demon was even worse off, also by a s. o. of m.; and neither of them was sparing Adam even a single passing thought.

(Unwisely, the Esteemed Reader might agree.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Things are just getting worse for everyone...  
Really, Crowley now broke up not only his own friendship (cough) but also indirectly impacted Adam's.
> 
> Next chapter will return to our regularly scheduled angel-demon pining - and may I just say, thank you all for your lovely comments, they never cease to make me deliriously happy!!!!!  
<3 <3 <3
> 
> [EDIT: tried to re-update because for some reason, the last-updated-by date wouldn't change yesterday...? Strange.]
> 
> [Aaaand it still won't change. Ao3 sometimes...]


	7. In Which Two Celestials Yearn

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh boy. It sure has been awhile, hasn't it?  
I apologise for the massive delay, and thank you to everyone still sticking by this story!  
<3

Tears were streaming down Crowley's face, first evaporating into the atmosphere, and then hardening into tiny little ice crystals as he reached the vast, cold emptiness of space.

He'd wanted to fight it, had tried so desperately, but Aziraphale's orders were ringing in his head, and the curse was burning into him with every second he failed to obey, lessening steadily but still hardly bearable.

His wings were shaking, his very being trembling, but Crowley could not so much as look back as he fled earth, fled the solar system, fighting his way through the vacuum to alpha centauri.

This was worse than his nightmares, the vague idea that Aziraphale might one day order him to perish by Holy Water. No, that would've been a mercy; to live on, alone, without him, so far, far away, was akin to unbearable torture.

Aziraphale should've just smote him. That would've been a kindness...

* * *

  
  


(Time went by. It was a long way to alpha centauri, and longer still for an angel sitting in a deserted bookshop by the telephone, trying his best to pretend he was only just expecting a call that would never come.)

* * *

It didn't take long for Aziraphale's resolve to crumble.

He slipped through the door into Crowley's flat, gently closing it behind himself and pretending there was some good reason for him to be there other than loss and longing.

The air was stale in the way air gets when nothing has disturbed it for a few days, and a tentative layer of dust had settled on every surface.*

*Excepting Crowley's extravagant chair and desk, of course. Dust would never dare to gather on those, not even if Crowley stayed gone for a hundred years.

If Aziraphale had had any doubts that Crowley had gone, this would've been the final confirmation.

Now, Aziraphale was nothing if not a reasonable fellow.

If one searched all over the world and found no trace, no message, nothing whatsoever, of one's _ acquaintance _ after a fight, well...

Crowley surely knew he hadn't meant it. Crowley was many things, but _ an idiot _ was certainly not one of them.*

*Now, we would argue that Crowley was, in fact, a colossal idiot; however, Aziraphale was rather bad at recognising his very own brand of idiocy in other people, and this very much happened to be the case here.

He _ knew _ Aziraphale would never want him gone, would expect him back by dinnertime, and if he'd left, truly and actually left, well...

That could only mean that Crowley _ wanted _ to extract himself from Aziraphale's life. Had _ chosen _ to take him by his word and make off for, for who-knows-where, and, and never…

Aziraphale's heart twisted painfully in his chest, and he felt a sudden need to sit down.

(There weren't any tears on his cheeks.

There were _ not _.)

"Just... upped and ran away." Aziraphale huffed forcefully, muttering to himself as he shuffled through the empty flat. "Didn't even take his coat. Or emptied his fridge. Or..."

Aziraphale stopped in front of the little couch he had sat on during... that night.

(He was quite surprised it was still there, frankly. Didn't go with Crowley's aesthetic at all.)

A few books were carefully stacked on a table beside it, and Aziraphale could tell that there were at least ten new volumes among them, carefully selected from authors he had mentioned towards Crowley he enjoyed.

"Oh, Crowley." Aziraphale said softly, guiltily, running a finger along the spine of an aged Dickens. "You dear old thing."

Something rustled behind him.*

*No, no, Aziraphale was NOT falling for this one again, absolutely not. Crowley was not going to simply sneak up behind him, tap him on the wrong shoulder, and grin like a little boy when Aziraphale pretended to fall for it, oh, if he only... he only...

It was a plant.

Correction, a room full of plants, in varying stages of dehydration and trying desperately to show no visible signs of it.

(Aziraphale hadn't exactly taken in much of his surroundings the last time he'd been there, so he hadn't actually been entirely aware of Crowley's plant-keeping habits.)

"Oh dear." Aziraphale muttered, and snapped his fingers.

Now, ceilings, the Esteemed Reader will surely agree, have no business raining. That is a cloud's job, an outdoors activity, and not suited for ceilings at all, even if they featured skylights.

In fact, it was a point of pride for many an upstanding - or uphanging, as it were - ceiling to not have any water leakage whatsoever.*

*The ceilings in Hell did not adhere to this, but, then again, the ceilings of Hell weren't exactly what one could call upstanding.

(They _ were _ quite prideful though, despite it all.)

Nevertheless, the ceiling in Crowley's plant room suddenly found itself inexplicably a source of a gentle rain upon the plants, even though it was a mild, cloudless night outside, and _ where was the water even coming from!? _

The poor ceiling was quite confused, and finally decided it must've been a miracle, and that the Great Roof In The Sky might actually be real after all.*  
  


*This was a rather surprising missionary success for Aziraphale, who had always been quite bad at convincing people to believe in a Higher Power. Most times, he managed to start talking about his favourite books instead, and, especially if Crowley happened to also be involved, ended up doubting his own beliefs more than they had ever doubted theirs.

It was quite vexing.

"Poor darlings," Aziraphale cooed, stroking a nearby geranium's petals.. "Look at the state of you!"

The plant, conditioned to fear absolutely anything in the world, but especially humanoid divine beings, recoiled in terror.

Aziraphale frowned.

"Abandoned and afraid," he murmured softly, pouring as much Angelic Love as possible into the poor little thing. "You must miss him terribly, don't you?"

(The geranium felt nothing of the kind, of course, only the fear of Crowley; but Aziraphale was quite soundly projecting by now.)

"How can he leave, knowing his plants depend on him?" Aziraphale asked it. "That you wither and die without him? It's really quite a silly thing, just going off to the stars and leaving your frie- your _ plants _ behind. _ Quite _ silly, nothing I would ever think of doing, Crowley's quite overreacting, don't you agree, Petal?"*

*Petal being, of course, the most obvious pet - or rather plant - name Aziraphale could think of, and which he would subsequently use when speaking with** his new best friend, even if he privately thought it ought to be named something nice and fancy, like Albertine or Elizabetha.

**Some evil tongues might suggest Aziraphale was speaking _ at _ the plant, rather than _ with _ it; but said tongues were talking nonsense and should be held quite firmly.

The geranium shook violently. Aziraphale took it as a yes.

"And now he's off, without so much as a return address, did he even consider how it might make you... might... oh, dash it all, how it might make ME feel!? He _ always _ returns, and apologises, and I forgive him. Why didn't he... why..."

Aziraphale miracled up a hip flask, and took a generous sip. This was not a line of thought one pursued when sober.*

*Belatedly remembering his manners, he held the flask out to Petal in silent offer, who understandably did not take him up on it.

"Why isn't he coming back to me?" Aziraphale murmured miserably, slumping down to lean against one of the bigger flower pots, Petal's smaller one loosely cradled in the crook of his elbow. "He always comes back, he can't leave me alone, he _ can't _..."

Rain was drizzling softly into Aziraphale's hair and ran down his face, but the droplets in the eye and cheek areas had very little to do with that.

He drained the flask, held it up until enough rain had collected in it, then drained it again.

(All that water to wine business had to be good for _ something _, after all.)

"You... y'know, Petal." Aziraphale slurred, as much as he ever allowed himself to slur - the miracle alcohol was really kicking in by now. "Maybe... maybe if we both pray hard enough, he'll return, hm?"

The geranium feared as much, and fervently begged any divine being willing to listen for Crowley's continued absence.

"Well - hic! - no." Aziraphale frowned. "No' praying. She's never any help, is She. Wish. Wish upon... upon a star."

He looked up through the skylight, and his mostly decorative heart sunk in his chest.

"Or two stars. Far away." Aziraphale whispered, yearning, straining towards the night sky with whatever angels had equivalent to a soul.

Alpha centauri shone far, far in the distance, as unreachable as... well, as the stars.

And down on earth, Crowley's empty flat was very cold, and the silence deafening.

"_I_ _miss you,_ Crowley." Aziraphale choked out, and began crying in earnest.

And then he fell asleep.*

*Well. Not quite. Aziraphale didn't sleep.

What he _ did _ do was slipping into a thoughtless drunken stupor very much like sleep, snores and sad little sniffles and all.

  
  


Above him, the ceiling eventually stopped raining, and the stars faded away into dawn; but that was hours away, and for now, Aziraphale slept soundly under their sad, distant light.

* * *

  
  
  


Somewhere an impossible distance away, twin stars twinkled an ignored welcome.

Feet touched the rough surface of a planet, whichever planet it was, close enough to alpha centauri to satisfy a terrible curse.

Wings aching with exertion folded, weak, shaking knees buckled, and dust that had never before been stirred found itself making way under a crumpled body.

The lone sign of life in a vast and empty space began crawling, tears still dripping down cheeks, broken sobs rasping unheard in a chest.

Curled up underneath a rock cropping, this figure forced itself to look earthwards despite the pain it caused, staring with desperate longing for as long as was bearable, and then some more until eyes ached and burned with soul-deep agony.

Exhaustion dragged Crowley under eventually, and some stupid, wishful part of him tried to tell itself that somewhere far away, Aziraphale was falling asleep thinking of him, too.

Which would be patently ridiculous, of course.

Even if Aziraphale _ did _ sleep.

* * *

When Aziraphale quasi-awoke again the next day, it was to the ringing of the telephone.

Confusedly, he blinked around himself, until he recalled the previous night, and drinking in Crowley's plant room with Petal cradled in his arm.*

*The little geranium had spontaneously developed vines in order to crawl away from Aziraphale while it still could. Crowley's plants were capable of a great many things when properly motivated, and naked fear certainly provided due motivation for impromptu evolution.

Aziraphale wobbled to his feet, steadying himself against a terrified little apple tree, and shuffled over to Crowley's desk.

It was quite a lengthy path, however, and Aziraphale's headache - half from crying, half from drinking - didn't allow for very fast movement, so the ansaphone clicked into action long before he reached it.

(Hearing Crowley's voice nearly brought him to his knees, but Aziraphale just about managed to compose himself.)

A beep, and...

Silence.

Except a faint, muffled sound like weeping.

Aziraphale stumbled forward, grasping the receiver. "H-hello?" He rasped, voice hoarse.

"M-mister Crowley...?" Adam whimpered. "I think... I think I've done a bad thing, I dunno what to do, Pepper jus'... an'..."

Aziraphale took a deep breath, and purged his body of as much residue alcohol as he could.

"Not C-crowley, I'm afraid." He answered, as firmly as he could.

"But I'll be there momentarily, my dear child."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, sorry for the long wait (and short-ish chapter)... I'll try to be speedier with the next few updates!
> 
> (And, if you're interested, I wrote a soulmate fic and a serial killer/cop AU in the meantime, as well as contributing an abundance of footnotes to some collaborative fics - so do check those out, if you'd like!)
> 
> Thank you all! <3 <3 <3


	8. In Which A Higher Authority Intervenes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> >crawls out of the woodwork, twigs stuck in hair, dark circles under eyes and sunken cheeks< heeeeey, sure been a while, huh?  
But here I am, at last, bearing a new update!  
I'm… really, really sorry I took this long. Deadlines just kept happening one after the other, both with the GOBB and uni stuff. I wrote the last 40k in one sleepless week, and wrote a 10-pages-too-long term paper about the Good Omens fandom, that was fun!  
Then again, now that my schedule is relatively free again, due to the current situation… might be that I could finally finish this thing. (She says, after having broken multiple similar promises in previous author's notes.) 
> 
> Seriously, though, thank you all for your incredible patience, and the many comments while I was off working on other things. It always makes me so happy to know that people are enjoying what I'm writing, and are excited for more of it.  
Thank you. So much. <3
> 
> (By the by, Ethel is an OC from Good Endings, my first GO fic, and I'm putting her into everything I'm writing that also has Sister Mary in it because _ they're girlfriends and love each other goddamnit!) _

Crowley lay underneath a rock outcropping, curled up in his wings and trying very, very hard to sleep for a century or two.

Perhaps, then, the order would wear off, so to speak, and he might eventually be able to work his way slowly through the solar system until they could at least occupy the same planet.

(Heaven, Crowley would be glad if he could at least bear to look in earth's direction again. As things stood, he had to avert his gaze every five seconds.)

His head had started out pillowed on his garish scarf, but the fact that it was made by Aziraphale made him ache far more than resting it against the cold stone would, so now the unique rough surface structure of alpha centauri rocks was slowly imprinting itself along his cheekbone.

Sleep wouldn't come.

Now that the most immediate exhaustion had been recovered from, Crowley was cold, and uncomfortable, and his mind was buzzing with regrets that kept any drowsiness away.

And, leaving his chest constricted and feeling strangled - despite the fact that air was entirely unnecessary at the moment - were thoughts of Aziraphale, who must, by now, have realised that Crowley wasn't returning to apologise, and likely drawing all the wrong conclusions.

Crowley might've wept, but at this point, he had no tears left to shed.

  
  


* * *

Aziraphale left a note.

(Not that he truly expected Crowley to read it. But  _ not _ writing one would mean admitting that to himself, so writing it was.)

It began with only "Crowley", because he feared that a "Dear" would far overstep his bounds at the moment, nevermind the "Dearest" he truly wished to use.

_ Received worrying call from Adam. Have gone to Tadfield to help, _ the note continued.

And then, shakier,  _ Yours, _ (always, always yours),  _ Aziraphale. _

His hand hovered over the paper, pen digging into the soft pads of his fingers.

He itched to add a postscriptum,  _ I love you I miss you forgive me,  _ but that would be overstepping indeed, so he carefully refrained.

Aziraphale sighed, and placed the pen down.

He plucked Petal up from where the poor thing had been attempting to pull itself into a secure hiding spot by its newly-developed vines, and set it down on the table, propping the note up against its pot.

"Be good, dear heart." He murmured softly, patting its blooms. "I'm sure he'll be back for us soon."

(The geranium, naturally, took that as an ultimatum, and shivered in silent terror.)

"Well. Best to get a wiggle on."

With another sigh, Aziraphale spread his wings.*

*They were almost ludicrously ungroomed, with old feathers sticking out at odd angles and the metaphysical equivalents of twigs and branches stuck in them, as well as a few wisps of cloud and half a sandwich Aziraphale had spent a week looking for sometime in '52.

He closed his eyes and believed, quite firmly, that instead of Crowley's flat being, well, Crowley's flat, it had acquired a sudden, undeniable air of Tadfield-ness, which was absolutely where he was, oh yes, no question about it, why would he be anywhere else!? 

Reality groaned a little under the impossibility of it, but like a rusty old bicycle, the one you bought years and years ago and can't quite bear to give away, it eventually succumbed to the very firm intent of its user to get from one place to another, and complied.

Aziraphale opened his eyes - and then very quickly closed them again, the sunlight, meagre as it was, wasn't doing his lingering hangover any good.

What little he had seen appeared to be a good sign that he had arrived at his destination, quaint little cottages and war memorial and all.

Though... a little bit of doubt lingered, since the intense feeling of  _ love _ he would've expected notably failed to slam into his sternum and take his breath away.

Oh well. Quite possibly, this was merely a side effect of… recent developments. He certainly felt like he would never feel happiness again, much less the warm, reassuring glow of love that he'd always felt when… in certain company.*

*Had he cared to check a little more thoroughly, he might've realised that the pain and loneliness and fear he was feeling wasn't  _ all _ him; but Aziraphale was already trying so hard to shut himself off from his  _ own _ heartbreak, ignoring that of someone else was almost instinctive.

Once he was reasonably confident he wasn't going to get his frontal cortex stabbed by a stray sunbeam, Aziraphale opened his eyes, straightened his lapels, and set off.*

*He wasn't worried about getting lost. Reality had just accommodated instant transport from Mayfair, London, to Village Centre, Tadfield - making sure Aziraphale was conveniently walking right to Adam's location wasn't even a stretch.

* * *

  
  


A letter to the _ Tadfield Advertiser: _

_ Sirs, _

_ I must, once more, complain most forcefully about the shameful state of our village! _

_ Why, only today, a very peculiar man who had obviously been partaking in drink the night before simply APPEARED in its middle! What is our village coming to if strange, hungover fellows can just appear in it from thin air, willy-nilly? _

_ Furthermore, when I related this to the police, I was told to, and I quote, "lay off the fatty spliffers, Mr Tyler". An outrage! _

_ Really... _

(It went on like this for a while. However, we're sure this sufficed for the Esteemed Reader to get the gist.)

  
  


* * *

  
  


The thing about alpha centauri was, it was empty*...

*Certainly, Crowley would, theoretically, be able to miracle up lucious gardens, happy animals, a lovely home for two, as he had planned when originally asking Aziraphale to run away with him.

But what was the point, if he would only live in it alone?

...and it was quiet.

The little rock hurtling through space that was to be Crowley's new home had no atmosphere, and absence of air meant absence of sound.

Crowley could only hear his own heartbeat, vibrations of unnecessarily-pumped blood echoing in his skull.*

*Sometimes, he liked to think it was beating for Aziraphale, and Aziraphale alone, pathetic excuse for a demon that he was.

So, Esteemed Reader, imagine Crowley's surprise when he heard a faint static sound in the distance, warbling and barely existent, but still very much  _ audible. _

Now.

Crowley had spent enough time around Adam to know that aliens were, at least, a theoretical possibility, if not a reality.*

*Said "enough time" was little more than five minutes. Adam did so love his UFOs.

Sound in a vacuum, however, was an impossibility, Crowley knew that with the kind of certainty one knew the earth was round.*

*We refrain from acknowledging the subset of society convinced the earth is flat, seeing as even Adam, who subscribed to many an outlandish theory, had solemnly declared it rubbish; so it must be very silly indeed.

Shuffling hesitantly to his feet, Crowley looked around.

Alpha centauri's little exoplanet was empty as ever, the most interesting thing in sight a rock formation that looked quite rude if you squinted and angled your head right...

...except for a little gleaming metal thingummy a few paces to his left.*

*North, we would say, but this planet had three magnetic poles, which made navigating by such terms rather impractical.

Eyeing it the way one would an ominously ticking briefcase, Crowley approached it.*

*A ticking briefcase equivalent should never be approached, but Crowley was exactly  _ one _ Aziraphale-imposed exile past actually caring.

It was a radio.

Quite a sleek little thing, maybe a bit old-fashioned in design, with a fine line of very-nearly-stylish tartan print down the side.

And it was, impossibly, weirdly, buzzing with static.

Crowley stared down at it.

Glanced around himself.

Out of old habit, glanced up.*

*A star twinkled in the distance as if it was winking, but Crowley assumed he hadn't seen right.

He picked the radio up.*

*Again, we deem it necessary to inform the Esteemed Reader that the behaviour exhibited here is quite reckless, and not to be recommended.

Fiddled with one dial.

Queen's  _ Miracle _ blared from the speaker, tinny and just a little distorted, but clearly recognisable.

"What the..." Crowley murmured, and glanced up again. The star in the distance was now positively flickering.

He flicked the dial again.

"This is Chattering Tonight, with your hosts, Sister Mary Loquacious, and Sister Ethel Taciturn. Hello!"

(Let us, at this point, tell you the story of Mary Hodges, who had found herself quite adrift following a debacle with real guns and a very strange daydream of whatever she liked best - which had just so happened to be her childhood friend from Sunday Satanist School, who, Mary had realised just then with a jolt, had been her very first crush.

Now, Mary Hodges had spent enough time Finding Herself to know you were never really  _ done _ with it. You could be doing  _ exactly _ what you thought would be "living your dream", and suddenly, you realise that there's something better yet at the horizon.

Or, perhaps, behind you.

Mary didn't want to go back to being a simple nun and being scatterbrained. Not really. But she  _ did _ miss being a Satanist, being part of a convent… and most of all, she missed her childhood love.

So she'd dissolved her business,* rented the convent out to a very nice family of hard-core Goths and their pet hand, packed her bags, and set out to look up little Ethel.

*She wasn't at all worried about such trivial things as career and money. Mary Hodges, upon finding out that she was, actually, quite clever in many ways, had also realised that, if need be, she could  _ absolutely _ trade her way up into a CEO position from as little as half an egg sandwich - so that was quite alright.

Sister Ethel Taciturn, though possessed of a talkative heart, had, upon her graduation from the Our Lady Lilith convent school, been deemed too  _ shy _ to serve Satan and St. Beryll, and was subsequently thrown out into the real world.*

*The spirit had been willing, but the vocal chords weak, as the Mother Superior used to say.

Wanting desperately to prove herself, Ethel - now plain old Ethel Wainwright again - had decided to go into radio, and overcome her crippling shyness one hesitant broadcast at a time.

She'd been doing quite well as producer and co-host, though she did frequently rely on a somewhat more talkative partner.

And.

When Mary had called - Mary, who had sat next to her in Blasphemous Education class, and always shared her cherry bubblegum, and had chattered loud enough for the both of them...

Well.

Ethel  _ had _ rather missed her, you see. And anyway, completely unrelated and coincidental, there was this fantastic opening for a little religious show...)

"Let us recount the deeds of the day - thank you, Ethel darling!" Sister Mary chirped over the rustling of paper.

"Mrs. Chiswick from Surrey has hailed Satan by putting peaches into her cakes, even though Mr. Chiswick prefers boysenberry - well done, Mrs. Chiswick! Annie from Soho considered scribbling a very rude word onto the facade of the local bookshop with its very impolite owner who wouldn't sell her a first edition last Friday, but couldn't make herself do it in the end. Bad luck, Annie!"

Ethel made a compassionate noise.

"But remember, Our Lord rewards intent as well as action, so that's quite alright!" Sister Mary continued. "Little Jeremy W. stuck out his tongue at a Mr. Tyler of the Neighbourhood Watch - so wonderful to hear of young talent, isn't it, Ethel?"

A noise of confirmation.

"The kids truly  _ are _ alright. And, to round this off, Ethel and I have kissed enthusiastically in front of some bigots, inciting them to wrath. With tongue!"

Ethel giggled.

(Crowley raised an eyebrow. Good for them.)

"Now, before we sing an Antichristmas hymn and say our praises unto Adam, Lord of Darkness, we have a message here for... Anthony Cowwely, from... aw, his  _ mother, _ isn't that sweet?"

(Crowley's raised eyebrow shot up into the sky, and stayed there, frozen in shock.)

"'Dear child, I hope this finds you well. What am I saying, I know exactly how this finds you, and it's quite miserable. Honestly, it's making Jesus all maudlin, and you know how he gets.  _ Can't you do something Mum, why don't you start the Apocalypse Mum, can't you make them kiss at the Ritz Mum? _ And I say, to Jesus I say, boy, it's not easy being the Almighty, and you traveled the world with Crowley Magdalene, why didn't you convince her to confess back then!?* But noooooo....'"

*In his defense, Jesus had most certainly tried. Crowley had simply brushed him off every time, and pointed out another lovely landmark of human ingenuity.

It had been very frustrating.

Crowley jabbed the off-button so violently it nearly broke.

One could spend years praying for a response from one's Creator, but that did not mean one was prepared for when it finally came.

For a brief second, all was vacuum quiet again.

"Howdy folks, and welcome back to the prayin' hour!" Marvin O. Bagman's voice boomed from the radio's speakers. "Have ya placed ya donations yet? Bought mah new single, 'The Rapture Is Fake News, But Climate Change Is Real'? All proceeds go to the Be Kind To Each Other foundation. Christ wants ya to be generous to the needy!"*

*Marvin, after having been possessed by a genuine divine being, had had a bit of a change of heart when it came to his preferred expression of Christianity, as you can plainly see. His latest album featured such hits as "Love Thy Muslim Neighbour, Even If He Don't Like Bacon", "Yeehaw To Equal Love", and "God Is A Woman, And She's Smokin'".**

**Obviously Her favourite.

"And can Ah just say, how-" Marvin's voice cracked, and suddenly sounded so vast it echoed through all of existence, and most of all in the empty spot in Crowley's non-soul.

**THAT WAS VERY RUDE OF YOU, CROWLEY. I WORKED HARD ON THAT LETTER.**

(Oh mah Gawd, it's happening again, Marvin thought, delightedly - and a bit scared, too.)

**WROTE IT IN CURSIVE AND EVERYTHING.**

"I helped with spelling!" Another voice chimed in, somewhat holy, too, but a good deal more down-to-earth - likely because the owner of it had actually  _ been _ down to earth. "It was absolutely unreadable before spell-check-"

**LOOK, BOY, THAT'S NOT HOW IT WAS SPELLED WHEN I- OH, NEVER MIND. CROWLEY, YOU'RE MAKING A MISTAKE.***

*All of Her speech was capitalised, of course, but rest assured that Mistake was emphasised even then.

**YOU BELONG BACK ON EARTH. WHAT ARE YOU DOING UP THERE, FOR MY SAKE!? GO HOME. RIGHT THIS INSTANT.**

"I can't," Crowley croaked, because he couldn't  _ not _ answer, even as a part of him was near-sick with relief that Her order was apparently not one that fell under the jurisdiction of the curse. "Forgive me, Lord, I can't. It's not possible, I wish, I wish I could...."

**CROWLEY, LET ME TELL YOU: DO OR DO NOT, THERE IS NO "I CAN'T".**

Crowley cringed a little, and he thought he could hear Jesus groan  _ "oh my Mum" _ in the background.

**EHEM. DON'T PULL THAT SORT OF FACE, SON. WHAT I MEAN TO SAY, CROWLEY, IS THAT ONLY VERY FEW THINGS ARE ** ** _TRULY_ ** ** IMPOSSIBLE. SO: CHOP CHOP!**

"Well, easy for You to say!" Crowley burst out. "Being omnipotent and all. It  _ hurts, _ Lord, even to look in the vague direction of earth is half tearing me apart! How do You expect me to-"

**HOW? THE SAME WAY I HAVE LEARNED TO EXPECT ** ** _HUMANS_ ** ** TO PERSEVERE.** God interrupted firmly, though not unkindly.  **THEY DON'T HAVE THE SAME POWERS AS YOU, DO THEY? AND YET, THEY ACHIEVE THE IMPOSSIBLE ON A DAILY BASIS! IT'S MAGNIFICENT, THE THINGS THEY CAN DO WHEN THEY PUT THEIR MINDS TO IT. IT'S BECAUSE THEY'RE SO DETERMINED, CROWLEY. BECAUSE THEY CARE AND LOVE AND ** ** _WANT,_ ** ** SO THEY ** ** _DO._ **

"...I care." Crowley swallowed around a painfully dry throat. "And I, hng, l-love, of course I do."

**I KNOW. YOU'RE NOT EXACTLY ** ** _SUBTLE,_ ** ** CROWLEY.**

Crowley carefully ignored that, and any and all implications stemming from it.

"But I… I'm not like them, Lord. I'm only a wretched demon, and the…" his breath hitched. "The only person I could find the heart to fight for is the one whose explicit orders I would have to fight  _ against. _ I've not the strength, Lord, please. Have… have mercy, and leave me be."

For a moment, the radio was silent in his hands.

**OH. OH, MY CHILD.** God said, and it was so soft and sad that it tore at Crowley's heart worse than the curse ever had.

He wanted to scream at Her, scream and shout and sob that he had no need for Her blasted pity, that he would never forgive Her for letting it all play out this way, that he hated Her and Her damned non-interference policy… but he was too weak and heartsick for that, too, so he stayed silent.

No doubt She would bestow some more meaningless platitudes on him, and then hopefully leave him alone.*

*That, Crowley thought with no small amount of bitterness, had always been what She was best at, after all.

**THE SITUATION IS MORE DIRE THAN YOU'RE AWARE OF. HE ** ** _NEEDS_ ** ** YOU, CROWLEY, AND HE NEEDS YOU ** ** _NOW, _ ** **NO MATTER WHAT SILLY THINGS POPPED INTO HIS FOOL HEAD A WEEK OR SO AGO.**

"...Aziraphale needs me?" Crowley whispered, and found himself quite cross with the plaintive, desperate note in it. He was only asking because he wanted to know why, of course, what sort of trouble that idiot angel had gotten himself into for some culinary delight* or other this time.

*Aside from the crêpes in Paris, there had also been hot buns in London, AD 1666, as well as tea in 1773 Boston, and the less said about the Borscht Incident, the better.**

**It had yet to occur to Crowley that all of these occasions could be directly connected to himself remarking in Aziraphale's presence that he was free of direct obligations for a while, and that he never got himself into trouble Crowley couldn't easily get him out of, fabricating increasingly ludicrous explanations for why he was incapable of doing it himself and required rescue.

Crowley, bless his heart, was more than just a bit dim at times.

**HE ALWAYS DOES. BUT NOW ESPECIALLY. YOU'VE DONE SOME VERY SILLY THINGS, CROWLEY, VERY SILLY, AND HE'S CAUGHT IN THE FALLOUT. IT COULD ESCALATE QUITE TERRIBLY, I FEAR.**

"I didn't mean… never meant to-" Crowley choked out. Aziraphale's predicament, his fault? Between the exile, a call from Mother, and now  _ this, _ could his day get any worse!?

**I'M NOT BLAMING YOU, MIND! TO ERR IS HUMAN, AND PEOPLE KEEP FORGETTING THAT I CREATED THEM IN MY IMAGE.**

**YOU MADE A MISTAKE. SO DID HE. AND DEAR AZIRAPHALE HAS BEEN TRYING TO FIX HIS, ALBEIT UNSUCCESSFULLY, SO THE LEAST YOU COULD DO IS AWARD HIM THE SAME COURTESY.**

"How?" Crowley asked instantly. Damn the curse to Hell, if it was Aziraphale's well-being on the line, he didn't question  _ why _ he should jump, he asked "how high" and then doubled that for good measure.

**COME HOME.** God implored him softly.  **YOU ** ** _MUST_ ** ** COME HOME FIRST, CROWLEY, THERE'S NO WAY AROUND IT. AZIRAPHALE NEEDS YOU, AND SO DOES MY GRANDSON. THERE IS TIME YET, BUT NOT MUCH. I WISH I COULD HELP YOU, MY CHILD… BUT THIS IS SOMETHING YOU MUST ACCOMPLISH ON YOUR OWN.**

Crowley swallowed.

Glanced over his shoulder at his faraway home, and found it still hurt quite a bit to as much as look at it.

If it had seemed a far distance on the way here, pushing him to his (meta)physical limits, then the journey back was absolutely impossible. It was like tumbling down the Niagara Falls on a rickety little raft, and, once down there, being handed a paddle and instructed to row back up the way you'd come.

And then, Crowley thought about humans, brave and stubborn and headstrong, and Adam, trusting him with his powers and his life... and Aziraphale.

His angel, who had broken him with a few careless words, and who Crowley had forgiven almost instantly, because he loved him so impossibly much.

"Alright then," Crowley said, miserable, but reluctantly committed to the endeavour now.

It was going to be a very, very, very long way home.

**DON'T DESPAIR, CROWLEY. YOUR HOROSCOPE TODAY IS OVERWHELMINGLY POSITIVE, YOU KNOW.*** God said, which wasn't even half as encouraging as She probably thought it was.

*The  _ Tadfield Advertiser's _ horoscope on the day in question went along the lines of "you have a great task ahead of you - success is just around the corner"; though it might be worth mentioning that the chief horoscopist (read: the least useful of the interns) had re-used a few crucial lines from the Libra horoscope quoted in the Esteemed Sirs Pratchett and Gaiman's delightful book, which we shall elaborate on later.

"Good luck, old friend," Jesus added, which was a little better.

And with that, the radio crackled, and suddenly all that could be heard on the air was a lightly sputtering Marvin O. Bagman.

"Oh mah- right." Ever the professional, Marvin caught himself for just long enough to transition into a pre-recorded song so he could go hyperventilate in peace. "Howdy again, folks! After that message from, uh, Our Merciful God an' Her Son, which ya only heard t'one side of and are probably mighty confuddled 'bout right now, let's have a listen to "Them's Their Pronouns, For God's Sake", and if ya donate, consider also shootin' a li'l prayer to the stars - Crowley, mah buddy, ya can do it! - this is Marvin, God bless ya!"

Crowley turned the radio off. This time, the dodgy little thing complied.

With the sigh of a condemned man contemplating his reflection in the blade of the executioner's axe, Crowley turned back in the vague direction of earth.

He shrugged off his jacket, undid both Aziraphale's garish, much-loved scarf as well as his thin silver one, and carefully folded them on the ground together with his vest. After placing his glasses and the radio on top, he straightened back up.

The cold of space was numbing him already, seeping deep into his bones and taking residency there, but the less mass he had to haul halfway across the universe, the better - and a bit of numbness would be a welcome relief in the face of the pain he was going to be suffering once he really got started.

_ For Aziraphale,  _ he reminded himself, shaking out his limbs and spreading his wings wide.  _ For Aziraphale, who needs me. For my angel. _

The distant stars were twinkling encouragingly, alpha centauri burning bright nearby, and the prayers of both Mary and Ethel's and Marvin's hearerships were with him.* He could do this.

*One would think that the prayers of Devout Christians would be detrimental to his Occult Energy levels; however, when you got right down to it, a prayer was a prayer, no matter who it came from or who it was directed at.

The important bit was, and always would be, that somebody  _ cared. _

And these people, for some reason, did.

And as the radio clicked on behind him and began to play Queen's  _ Spread Your Wings, _ Crowley pushed off; and, despite the sudden explosion of pain across the surface of his very being, beat his wings once, twice, at the airless void; and hurled himself back home.

* * *

  
  


Aziraphale shivered slightly, pulling his coat more tightly around himself.

It felt a little like a storm was brewing, the air heavy and crackling with it; and the closer he got to his destination, the denser the clouds above.

It… wasn't a good sign, to say the least.

By the time he reached the very edge of the Tadfield quarry, a light rain was falling - though, notably, only over the quarry, stopping precisely at the fence, which was an even less-good sign.

"Oh dear." Aziraphale muttered, miracling himself an umbrella. "Oh my."

Gripping the umbrella's handle tightly, he stepped within the quarry's boundaries.

_ (He glanced over to his left side out of sheer instinct. But of course there was nobody there. Of course.) _

"Adam!" He called tentatively. "Adam, my boy, it's Aziraphale!"

Silence, except for the gentle pitter-patter of drops on the tartan fabric above his head.

"Adam?"

Still no verbal answer. Aziraphale's took another few hesitant steps forward.

"Adam! Adam, where are you!?"

What if the boy was hurt? He had sounded so scared, the poor little thing, oh, this was  _ precisely _ why it had been a terrible,  _ terrible _ idea to interfere with his powers so! Crowley, for all that Aziraphale missed him ever so dearly, truly had been an absolute  _ fool, _ oh yes he had been, and if- WHEN,  _ when _ he got back, Aziraphale was going to read him the riot act, he was, once he'd held him close and begged him never to go away again naturally,  _ oh, where could the boy be- _

"ADAM! AD-!"

A barking sound, nearby.

Aziraphale broke into a run.*

*Well, the closest he ever got to a run, which... has the Esteemed Reader ever seen a penguin with a bad limp running as if its tail feathers were on fire? It was quite similar to that.

Dog met him halfway, barking and skittish (and looking, for a Hellhound, unusually scared), and led Aziraphale to a little hideaway shielded from the rain.

There sat Adam, hugging his knees and tremors running all over his body - and, to Aziraphale's horror,  _ through the air around him,  _ little warps and rips where reality tore under the strain of… whatever was happening to the poor boy.

Adam looked up.

His eyes were a tumultuous red, like two pools of blood boiling over; and his cheeks were wet with tears.

"Don' come any closer!" He choked out, and there was something in his voice that didn't really sound like a voice at all, never mind  _ Adam's. _ "It's jus' gettin' worse an' worse, I can't control it anymore!"

Aziraphale noted, with considerable trepidation, that the ground was scorched in a two meter radius around the poor child, and that the old flip phone Adam must've stolen from his father to call Crowley with lay in pieces at his feet, still sizzling slightly.

"Please, please, help me." Adam whimpered. Dog trotted up to him and attempted to cheer him up by nuzzling his face... with little success. "I hurt ev'ryone. If they get close to me. I hurt them. I get angry or scared or  _ anythin', _ and then I… then…"

A shuddering sob that rippled through the earth and the sky and everything in between.

_ "Help me." _

"Oh." Aziraphale said, soft and sad and more than a little afraid. "Oh  _ Adam..." _

  
  


* * *

  
  


All in all, Crowley got further than anyone would've thought - least of all he himself, who wouldn't have bet a brass farthing on as much as managing to remove himself from alpha centauri's immediate gravitational pull.

We must commend him for trying, despite the more than suboptimal circumstances.

Only, regrettably, this wasn't one of those elementary school competitions where everybody got participation awards, and the only important thing was motivating little children into doing some exercise.

This, this was like a jump from building to building, with a twenty-storey drop in between. Anything less than complete success at first try would leave him plummeting down into the dark until the abyss swallowed him up. A failed attempt would be no use at all, and there would be no chance of a second try, Crowley knew that deep in his bones.

If he faltered, if his wings stilled for even a moment, he would never manage to push through the haze of pain and the curse screaming  _ no go leave go back he doesn't want you go away go away _ into his non-soul, never be capable to force his burning joints into renewed movement.

Crowley knew that, and when he reached the point of utter exhaustion - somewhere in the vicinity of a reddish-green planetary system with too many moons to count, though Crowley hardly had the opportunity to take in the scenery* - all he did was mentally giving it a weak, defeated wave in passing.

*The population of said planet, if they had chanced a look up at the night sky, might've seen a shooting star amid their many moons, and might, perhaps, have made a wish or two. We wouldn't know.

He was running on fumes and the stubborn faith of a few thousand humans who were resolved to believe in a stranger whose name they had heard on the radio, and Crowley felt a sudden kinship with his darling Bentley.

Now he, too, was on fire and firmly telling himself he was not, carrying on out of sheer desperation and love - he only hoped he wasn't about to explode upon reaching his destination.

However, London to Tadfield, even via the flames of the M25 and burning oneself, and 4.367 light years through the freezing cold of the vacuum… that's two very different pairs of shoes.*

*Or, rather, one pair of what had a 50-50 chance of being shoes, and one quartett of tyres.

We hate to admit it, but Crowley never had a chance. A third of the way he managed, yes, which was already a third more than should by rights be demonly possible under the circumstances.

But that was all.

With the solar system still glinting an impossible, unreachable distance away, Crowley managed to get a last, feeble flapping motion out of his trembling, brittle wings…

...and, against every instinct screaming at him not to, they stilled.

Crowley's lungs were expanding and constricting out of some deeply ingrained habit born from millennia of watching humans pant in moments of exhaustion, and tears and sweat turned to ice crystals floating around his face.

The relative proximity to earth made the curse bury its teeth deep in his flesh and  _ twist; _ but, at this point, returning to alpha centauri, the only relief, was equally impossible. The mere thought of inching even a single, well,  _ inch, _ either way had his wing joints screaming bloody murder at him.

So Crowley hung in the empty darkness, and felt like he was falling.

There was no going forward. No going back. He was weak, and the curse only continued to make him weaker, flickering static already creeping up at the edges of his vision.

Forget reaching earth.

He would be lucky if he  _ survived _ this.

And, as we leave Crowley floating exhausted and in pain in the vacuum, we would like to use this opportunity to inform the Esteemed Reader about which parts, exactly, the  _ Tadfield Advertiser's _ intern recycled* in Crowley's horoscope.

*Very environmentally friendly, all in all.

There were, as it turns out, three.

The first one might be obvious:  _ a friend is important to you. _ (Which was true, naturally. A certain friend was really very extremely important to Crowley, always.)

The second was:  _ you may be vulnerable to a stomach upset today, so avoid salads. _

And third:  _ help could come from an unexpected quarter. _

Number three, too, was right on the money, as the Esteemed Reader will soon get the opportunity to see themselves, come next chapter.

(We don't really know why the second bit made it in there, or what it is about  _ salads, _ specifically, that upsets stomachs so. All we can say is, the universe is a strange, strange place sometimes; but the Esteemed Reader surely is aware of  _ that.) _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, here it is - double the size of previous chapters, too! (I didn't know where to split it, so I figured, let's just put up the entire thing.)  
We're getting closer to the end, and I really want to finish this, so let's hope there'll be another update soon…  
Once more, thank you all so much for sticking with this silly fic despite my disastrous update schedule! I still get the occasional comment even though the last update was months and months ago, and every single one has helped motivate me to throw another chapter together! I love you all, honestly.  
^-^ <3
> 
> (Also, if the next update _ does _ end up taking a while... my - completed! - fic for the Good Omens Big Bang, The Whole Damned World Seemed Upside Down, is 102k of Crowley making a massively ill-advised wish and ending up stuck in opposite-world, where he angsts and pines and Death adopts a kitten - just in case you need something to tide you over! ;))


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